


Benediction

by Lumelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, BAMF!John, Children, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumelle/pseuds/Lumelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, John's life takes a sharp turn for the worse. With Mycroft's help, though, he manages to fight his way back to normal life. However, things are about to change drastically once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survival

**Author's Note:**

> My own take on the "221B" fic form. Each part/chapter in the fic will be exactly 8,731 words long (according to Scrivener), or 221B in hexadecimal.

Part 1:  
 _Survival_

The nightmares were back.

Of course, to say that they were back rather implied that they had gone away at some point, which was most definitely not the case. They had always been there, probably always would be, but they had become less frequent during his time with Sherlock.

Now Sherlock was gone, though, and nightmares filled the space he had left behind. They were different now, though, filled with images of a falling man and blood on the pavement more often than images of war and fire. Sherlock's face was always there, his pale face stained with tears and blood, so much blood and the sickening scent, eyes staring mindlessly to the sky.

He hadn't been back to 221B since the funeral. He hadn't been able to. It had been all he could do to get his most important belongings out of the eerily quiet apartment, the place without life and sound and Sherlock.

His current apartment was a small thing, barely adequate for sleep and eating. That might not have mattered much, had he actually found some cause to leave it. Mycroft had informed him, in his usual polite manner that left little room for argument, that he would not need to worry about the rent for either his current place or 221B. He hated to accept such charity, but for the moment he could do very little to protest if he wanted to keep a roof over his head. All he had were some savings, and those would not get him very far.

Only until he got back to his feet, though. Only until then, and not a bit further.

Of course, there was the matter of what Sherlock had left behind. It had all been settled quickly, discreetly, though John had not paid much attention. All he knew was that his savings had suddenly multiplied by some orders of magnitude, not that he would ever touch a penny of it. He couldn't. It was still all Sherlock's, after all.

His hopes of getting on with his life were made quite difficult by the return of not only the nightmares but the rest of his unfortunate woes. His leg, which had been just fine with running from the police and other such stunts, had started to get gradually worse ever since the funeral. Occasional aches he could handle, even the limp as it returned, but the persistent pain that would not even allow him to stand for long periods made him quite miserable.

But then, he no longer had any reason to run. No one to chase, no one to evade. No reason to treat the roofs and fire escapes of London like another set of streets with a higher difficulty rating. The greatest source of excitement in his life nowadays was wondering if he'd make it to the bakery in time before they ran out of his favourite biscuits.

The thought was physically painful, giving him pause on his slow but steady advance down the street.

It took him even longer to walk back home that day.

***

It had been a while since this had happened, the car and the almost amused woman and no answers to anything. He should have felt more alarmed or annoyed or hurt, had expected to be so the next time he received an invitation he could not refuse, but when it finally happened he faced it all with a kind of quiet resignation.

He could not avoid Mycroft, after all. It would be easier for everyone if he just went along, even if they came for him on his way to get some groceries, God forbid he have something actually resembling a normal life. Besides, if he knew them at all, they would be quite happy to drop him by the store on the way back. Mycroft was nothing if not accommodating in the strangest of ways sometimes.

The scene he arrived at was eerily familiar, though he was certain it was a different location. The vast emptiness, damp floor, the sole chair placed in the middle of nothing. And Mycroft, Mycroft and his umbrella, eyeing him like a bird of prey.

"And just when I thought you had learnt how to meet people like a civilised person." John sighed, walking to the chair and dropping down. His leg was giving him hell today, and he'd be damned if he let this man cause him any more pain.

"I merely prefer to be discreet." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella for a moment, then straightened again. "I have been informed that you have not yet touched Sherlock's inheritance."

"No," John replied curtly. "Nor do I have any intention of doing so."

"Might I enquire as to why not?"

As though he didn't know, the curious bastard. "It's Sherlock's money." And Sherlock's estate, reminded the voice in the back of his head that seemed to recall some mention of a country mansion somewhere in the papers they'd presented him with. Figured.

"John." The slightest bit of a frown. "I know it is hard to accept, but my brother is gone. He is dead. I read the autopsy report myself. No amount of good wishes on either of our part is going to bring him back."

"Still." John shook his head. "I cannot. It… wouldn't be right."

"I see." Mycroft nodded slowly. "Tell me, did you ever wonder why someone with his disposition would look for a flatmate if he had such wealth at his disposal?"

"Not really." It hadn't crossed his mind much, mainly because the days since Sherlock's death had been little but a blur. Of course, even before that he had noted that Sherlock's clothes and spending habits were those of a rich man striding through a mansion, not one who lived in a cluttered apartment with a flatmate. "Someone to show off to, I suppose."

"I'm sure that is part of the reason. However, a much more important part is that until your arrival, he simply could not afford it." At his surprised look, Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "I'm sure we both know the kind of trouble my brother got himself into on a regular basis. At the time of your meeting, I had frozen most of his assets as a way of warning, leaving him in something of dire straits. It was through your aid that he managed to get his act together and earned my approval again."

"What is your point here?"

"Merely pointing out that without you, he would not have had access to all this money. As such, you should have no moral compunctions at accepting what he willingly left you in his passing."

John shook his head. "I am not quite that easy to convince, Mycroft. I will get myself out of this on my own, somehow. You know me well enough to realise that I prefer to earn my own keep."

"And how do you propose to do that, my dear John? We both know you cannot hold a regular job."

"I could get a job at the surgery if I wanted." Keeping it would be another matter.

"No you could not, not in the long run." Mycroft gave him another pleasant smile. "I would hate to drive you to the point of destruction."

"I'm not quite that badly off, thanks." Oh, yes he was. Not quite badly off enough to admit it to Mycroft of all people, though.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. John could almost feel the brush of the eyes flitting across him, drinking in every tiny detail, storing them away, analysing. It was a familiar feeling, yet a painful one. These weren't the right eyes, not the right gaze.

"You have hardly slept in three days." Mycroft's voice was soft as he spoke again. "Nightmares, I would imagine. Not the condition in which one would like to be responsible for the well-being of others. Your hand is shaking again too; you probably thought you'd gotten rid of it entirely, yet here it is again. Your leg is paining you, enough so that not even your pride can force you to stand for me. And even if one were to ignore the physical side, there is still the mental to consider."

"What about it?" The words were painful in their truth. It was all he could do not to show it to Mycroft.

"As though you do not know, or imagine that I do not." Mycroft shook his head briefly. "Were you to take up a regular, mundane position now, John, even assuming your physical condition allowed you to hold it, I do fear we would be burying you beside Sherlock before the year is out."

John opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again as he realised he had nothing convincing to say. "I have little in the way of options," he replied. "I cannot exactly enlist again with my condition." And without Sherlock, nothing else could keep his head together.

"Oh, I am well aware." Mycroft tilted his head in an almost amicable manner. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer you a deal."

John gave him a sharp look but let him continue. He had already made it very clear what he thought of accepting charity; reiterating that would accomplish nothing but wasting both of their time. Not that he had anything but time.

"I will arrange for a rather generous allowance. It will be enough for you to live on without touching anything Sherlock left you. Should you so desire, I will even arrange for a firearms license for your pistol." No use in asking him how he had known about the gun. Mycroft knew everything, after all. "In exchange for that, I will require two things of you."

"And what are those?" He should have felt more wary, he thought. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him about making deals with the devil.

"Quite simple." Again the twirled umbrella. "One, you will attend therapy to hopefully work through some of your issues regarding my brother's death. I will personally find a therapist who actually knows what they are doing. Two, you will do some work for me."

"Work?" Why did that sound so nefarious? "What kind of work?"

"Cases, my dear John." Mycroft's lips twitched. "Nothing quite as physically demanding as the mad chases Sherlock came up with, at least not at first. However, there are still things out there that will require sharp eyes and an even sharper mind. I can hand the first one to you today, should you so desire, and there are others to come. I'm sure dear Detective Inspector could use some help on occasion as well."

"I'm not Sherlock." He swallowed. Nobody could ever match Sherlock. "You know that very well."

"No, you are not. However, in the very small world of consulting detectives, you are the next best thing. You are the person most familiar with his methods and approaches, and you are by no means a stupid man yourself. I am certain you would be most useful in matters of this nature." Mycroft paused and gave him another sharp gaze, perhaps assessing how his next words would be received. "Think of it as a chance to prove to the world once again that my brother's methods were, while at times unconventional, nevertheless based on solid reasoning."

Well. He certainly was a fine politician, knowing exactly how to sell his offer. Nevertheless, John still had his doubts.

"And why are you doing this?" he asked, quiet. "It's not as though Sherlock cares anymore about how I am."

"Perhaps not personally. And yet, I like to think I am doing this for him."

John looked at him questioningly. Why, yes, he did require more of an explanation.

"I destroyed my brother's life, John," Mycroft murmured, his voice barely audible even in the silence surrounding them. "Moriarty may have been the one to pull the strings, but I killed Sherlock as surely as if I had pushed him down from that roof with my own two hands. I cannot make it up to him anymore, however. Much as I may wish to, I will never have the chance to apologise to him."

"You won't." John's hand tightened around the handle of his cane. "Neither of us will ever speak to him again."

"A fact of which we are both painfully aware, I'm sure." A sigh. "At least allow me to take care of the one thing he held precious in his life. An act of atonement, if you will."

For a moment, John looked at him, taking in all the fine details. The lines around his eyes, more numerous than they had been just a little while ago. The hand on the handle of the umbrella, apparently casual in its grip, yet the hand set in a tenser manner than usual, thumb firmly around the handle, perhaps to disguise a minor tremor. The thin lines of his knuckles, his wrist, the slightly off fit of his suit, suggesting the loss of more than a few pounds. A small smear of sauce on a cuff, though, confirming the lack of a diet. He had the time and opportunity to eat, yet he was losing weight. Stress, perhaps, and loss of appetite. A tense set of the lips even in smile, the slightest hint of shadow under they eyes that met his gaze steadily as he looked up again.

"Sleep deprivation," he said aloud. "Lack of appetite, stress. You are not feeling well, Mycroft."

"Naturally not. After all, my brother is dead." The last hints of Mycroft's smile faded away. "And now the one person I would like to protect in his stead seems intent on following him to the grave."

John might have laughed, might have called it ridiculous, but all of a sudden he did not feel very amused.

A deep breath, two. He flexed his hand upon the handle of his cane.

"What is the case?"

***

The case Mycroft gave him appeared simple on the surface, but was anything but once he looked deeper. What seemed like mainly ordinary records of cell phone and credit card use turned out to hide several mysteries as he examined them further, the smallest of which was the apparently arbitrary manner in which the owner moved between three towns before finally disappearing. Of course, he had a nagging suspicion that Mycroft had solved the case the moment he glanced at it, but that was irrelevant. It wasn't like Mycroft didn't have several other people at hand who could have worked on the case, that wasn't the point. The point was providing John with something to fill his day with, something to do that wouldn't drive him wild with boredom, something to prove his worth.

Something to remind him that he wasn't the one who was dead.

Opening his laptop for the first time in what seemed like forever, he set out the files and his cell phone within reach, then started working on unravelling the messy threads.

It wasn't the same as working with Sherlock, of course; few things could excite him quite that much. There was no running around the city, no danger aside from the risk of getting a rude response on the phone as he called to clarify some detail, nobody aiming a gun or a fist or a knife in his general direction. All the same, he found himself working late to the night, connecting the dots he fished out from a sea of false leads. Keeping himself awake with the power of more coffee than he'd consumed since the last time Sherlock had dragged him out on an all-night stake-out, he kept focused on the files in front of him.

He might not have been running, but this was a chase nevertheless, one where the culprit would split from his grasp the moment he slowed down. As such, he could not afford to let up just yet.

He could almost feel Sherlock's looming presence right behind his shoulder, a wry voice commenting on how very slow he was, a sarcastic word of praise when he finally realised something he should have seen right away, really now John. It was part of what kept him going, his stubborn streak not allowing him to let Sherlock down like that.

He sent his conclusions to Mycroft early in the morning, along with the deductions that led him there. Perhaps he was not as fast as Sherlock, but at least he made sure to show his work. Not that Mycroft required it, but he preferred to be thorough.

To something of his surprise, he realised his leg was feeling better and the sun was peeking in through the window. While he was somewhat sleepy, he decided it would have been a waste not to enjoy this rare occasion of relief and good weather. Throwing on his jacket and grasping his cane, he headed out to grab some breakfast from the bakery at the corner.

He wasn't too surprised to return to find a message from Mycroft, thanking him for his cooperation and informing him that an appropriate compensation for his help had already been sent. A new case would be sent once he had slept for a bit, Mycroft would so hate to wear him down after all.

Mycroft never asked him whether he'd like another case. Of course not. He could have just as well asked a drowning man whether he would fancy some air.

Closing his laptop, John collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he woke up, he remembered no dreams.

***

His third case from Mycroft ended up on the blog.

It was the first time he had updated his blog since the one entry he had made right after Sherlock's death. It felt strange, describing a case in which Sherlock held no part, which was nothing but his own thoughts and investigation and manners and what Sherlock would have doubtlessly called insufficient deduction.

Nevertheless, Sherlock slipped in, effortlessly as always, making himself at home in the case despite his painful absence. Here and there John found himself mentioning how Sherlock would certainly have handled this situation in a different manner, or found the right words here and noticed the right clue there, only to scare off the important witness by his brusque manner and impatience. John could hear him snort at that, really now John you should know I'm quite the actor when I wish to be, but ignored the stupid ghost of a protest. If Sherlock had something to say, he could just come and say it in person, thanks.

Not that he would. Not anymore. The only place where he survived was here, in his thoughts, in his words. In his heart.

Somehow, it was not quite as painful to think about as it had used to be.

The fourth case was not a pile of files from Mycroft, like the previous ones. Instead, he received a short text mentioning something about getting back to his roots. Before John had managed to ascertain whether this was some sort of a clue or an actual message, his phone buzzed again, this time from a somewhat more familiar number.

An address, and the words "Murder. Come if possible." There was no signature, but then he did not need one. Greg did not bother to conceal his number when messaging friends.

As he got out of the cab at the appropriate place, John took a moment just to breathe in deep, taking in the familiar air of a murder scene. Then he set to limping toward the taped-off area, a purpose in his steps.

Greg was waiting for him, a hint of smile on his face despite the otherwise grim expression. "Been a while."

"Indeed." John leaned on his cane. "I thought you were still suspended?"

"Received new orders this morning. I'm back on the job, and the investigation is over, on two conditions."

Well, didn't this sound familiar. "Something you can divulge?"

"One, I am to call you on cases as appropriate. Two, contradictory or not, I am to try to keep you from killing yourself on said cases." Greg quirked his eyebrows in question. "Anything you'd like to share?"

"Seems I've gained a guardian angel in a dapper three-piece suit." John eyed the scene. An apartment had been quartered off, police walking in and out of the scene. Some familiar faces, all eyeing him warily but without any actual hostility. "I suppose it's all right for me to be here?"

"Figures. Damn Holmes brothers, always getting their way." There was a strange kind of wistful fondness to Greg's tone, though. Not that John could blame him. "And yeah. The accusations were only ever against Sherlock, and you've apparently been cleared as a consultant. I can even give you more than the usual five minutes as long as you follow the proper procedures. Makes one wonder why the git himself never bothered to do as much."

"Probably hated the idea of relying on his brother." John headed inside, now. "That and he never was one for proper procedures."

"I suppose." Greg followed him inside. "The leg still giving you trouble?"

"Less so than a week ago." John gave him a rueful smile. "Still dislikes walking around, but at least it's not hurting." This much, he could live with. It was about at the state it had been back before he had met Sherlock.

"That's good at least." They fell into a kind of silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say. This was the first time they had met on a crime scene since the scandal, and neither could quite ignore the shadow of Sherlock hanging behind their backs.

Despite his death Sherlock was there, his presence undeniable, watching them, listening them, rolling his eyes at them as they stumbled through the case. John could almost hear him making dismissive noises as Greg summed up the facts of the case, almost expected to hear some comment on how long he was taking as he examined the body and couldn't he just see the facts plain as day.

He was not Sherlock, and did not have his precious powers of observation, but he had watched a lot, and he was a diligent study in some things. Sherlock had so often told him what to look for, what kind of details mattered, what could be dismissed and what might lead to further clues. After the first check for physical markers for the cause of death he found himself almost routinely checking for not only signs of struggle but for anything unusual, out of place, sticking out. And after that came the normal, the things most people missed, the clues and answers of where he had been and what he had done and what kind of a person he was, the teeny tiny details that everyone could see but very few would observe.

He realised all of a sudden that the room had gone entirely silent. Looking up, he found everyone staring at him with somewhat strange looks on their faces.

"Ah… did I say something wrong?" He was vaguely aware he had been talking while conducting his examination, but he liked to think he did have more of a filter at least than Sherlock even on his best days. Those pesky things called manners and all.

"No, nothing wrong." So why did even Greg look at him like he were some kind of a ghost? "Rather, you were almost too right."

"How on Earth can I be too right?" He reached for his cane again, struggling back up to his feet. Nothing left to do here.

"Well, you just spent five minute with the corpse and gave us our John Doe's occupation, hobbies, and his very interesting drug habit."

"I didn't pull it all out of thin air, Detective Inspector, so stop making it sound like some magic trick." No tricks. No magic. There had never been any trickery in Sherlock's methods. "All I did was look at what was there and draw my conclusions from that."

"And you've done a bloody brilliant job at that, too." Greg sounded quite impressed. "Any idea how the killer managed to lock the room with the key inside, too?"

"Oh, it's a simple enough trick." He'd seen a similar set-up in a comic book, once. Sherlock had sometimes picked up such things, only to fling them across the room in five minutes, complaining about the idiocy of the characters. "The key was on the coffee table next to the window, right?"

"Yes, but the window was closed and locked and the curtains drawn. It could not have been slipped back that way."

"There's a piece of clear tape on the curtains." He rubbed his temples. "An opening under the door big enough to pass the key. Draw a fishing line in a loop with one end through the curtain and the open ends under the door. Tape the key to the line and start pulling from the other end. When the key meets the curtain it can't pass through it, the key and tape fall off, line can be safely retrieved."

"They couldn't have any guarantee the key would not just bounce off the table, though."

"They didn't need any. As long as it ended up somewhere near the window, it'd be far enough not to be tossed from under the door, and impossible to get in from the outside. Locked room, murder looks like a suicide at first glance, lazy and careless police will call it a day and another branch of the drug network slips away unnoticed." John shook his head. "They imagined they were being clever. Being precise was never high on their list of priorities."

There isn't much else they need him for at the scene, so he makes his leave soon. As he passes a couple of officers, one of them a new face, he hears a whisper of, "Who exactly is that man?"

"He's what we call a consulting detective." Hushed, clearly not meant for his ears, but still spoken in sincere tones. Tones of trust, too, rather than suspicion and fear. Lestrade wasn't the only person on the force who'd had faith in a certain dark maker of miracles.

The answer didn't hurt as much as it could have, once, not as much as he would have imagined it would. There was a moment of pain, of course, he supposed there would always be the dull ache of Sherlock's absence from his side, a constant reminder of how much he had lost to Moriarty's lies. However, for now it seemed to get easier, if only a bit.

He was not taking over, no, not stealing Sherlock's name. If anything, John was continuing his friend's work, clearing his name one suspicious mind at a time.

Though the dark shadow behind his shoulder didn't say a word aloud, he was sure Sherlock approved.

***

"I have to say, this is much nicer than abandoned buildings." John looked around the fine restaurant. "And less snobbish than your club."

"I quite expected so." Mycroft's lips twitched. "Which is exactly the reason I chose this location for our update session."

"Naturally." They were the only people in this part of the restaurant. Either it was a very slow day, or Mycroft was being Mycroft. He felt quite comfortable assuming the latter.

Yes, he was aware this probably looked like a date. At this point, he had no energy left to care.

"I do have to admit I am almost surprised," Mycroft remarked after they gave their orders to the waiter. "I was not sure if you would agree to meeting me with advance warning."

"So that's why you keep kidnapping me?" John asked, incredulous. "You think that if we actually agree on a meeting, you'll get stood up?"

"I cannot exactly expect to be one of your favourite people." The usual smile, so pleasant, polite, yet with some tension to it.

John paused, looking at Mycroft. Though he had hid it well, he was under stress. More so than before Sherlock had left them, too. It was hard to think the two were unrelated. And something in the way he looked at John… "I don't hate you, you know."

For once, Mycroft Holmes looked almost startled for a split second. "Pardon?"

"That is what you are afraid of, isn't it? That I hate you for what happened to Sherlock." John shook his head. "I used to, yes. No use denying that. But I don't hate you now, for what it's worth."

"I killed my brother, John." Soft tone, soft words. Expertly hidden pain.

"No, you didn't. Moriarty did. And if I allow myself to blame you, I will only be giving Moriarty the victory." John shook his head. "You made a mistake. We all do that sometimes. No, you're not blameless in Sherlock's death, but the ultimate crux of the fault lies on Moriarty's shoulders."

"Thank you, I suppose." Some of the pain escaped, though it was by no means gone.

"Oh, don't thank me. Thank Moriarty. He's got something of a monopoly in the matter of my hatred."

"Indeed." Mycroft gave him a rueful smile.

They were quiet, then, until the waiter returned with their food. As he left again, though, Mycroft looked at John. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Depends on what it is." Though he had to wonder what there could be about him that Mycroft did not already know.

"Why do you believe in my brother?"

Okay, that was not what he had expected. Not that he was entirely sure what he had expected, of course, but it was most definitely not this. "Excuse me?"

"You believe in Sherlock. That much is obvious. But why?"

"Because I knew Sherlock, of course. We both did. We know he would never do such things."

"Of course we do. However, is that really something you know? Or is it just what you feel?"

John hesitated. A part of him felt there was no need for this, that they both knew that Sherlock had been real and would have never done the things he had been accused of. However, a look in Mycroft's eyes reminded him that he wasn't really the one concerned here. Mycroft had had lost his brother, had lost his brother after witnessing his public shame and humiliation. The least John could do was offer some reassurance that his own faith in Sherlock was based on actual fact and not just sentiment.

He knew well enough just how little weight the Holmes brothers based on sentiment.

"He knew about my sister," he said slowly. "It was the second time he ever showed off to me. The first time was when he figured out who and what I was, but that one could have been either a fluke or an opportune word or two from Mike. However, when he figured out everything about my sister from just one look at my phone I knew he was real."

"So what kind of things did he know about her?" Mycroft's eyes were locked on him, as though he held some important secret.

"Everything, basically. Our relation, that she and I didn't get along but she was trying to fix that, that she was getting divorced, that she had a drinking problem. And all that from just five seconds with my phone."

"All that is information that could be found out through other routes." So why did Mycroft not sound like he believed that?

"Oh, he told me that, too. When he stood on the roof, he claimed he had researched me beforehand, all to impress me. But I know that wasn't true. It never could have been true."

"And how do you know that?" Low voice, slow and steady, a man desperately hanging onto every word he said.

"Not from the things he got right. Because you're right, it's entirely possible he found that out in other ways. No, what has me entirely convinced is the one thing that he got wrong."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "And what would that be?"

"He thought that Harry was my brother." John shook his head. "Tell me, Mycroft. Is it even possible for someone to know about the divorce, the drinking, even our strained relationship, but not find out that she's a woman? And even if that were possible, do you think someone like Sherlock would neglect such an important detail, or get it wrong on purpose for some unfathomable reason?"

"No." Mycroft shook his head. "No, I know that would never happen."

"He got it wrong, though. He couldn't have researched me because that would have been the first thing he found out about Harry. But he got it wrong, and that's because it was the only fact he could not see from the phone in his hand."

"Indeed." Mycroft hadn't really seemed tense, but the way he relaxed now was easy to see.

They didn't speak much for the rest of the dinner.

There wasn't much need, now that everything important had been settled.

***

The first time he had a client approach him about a case, John was shocked.

Of course, thinking about it, he probably shouldn't have been quite as surprised. After all, once the worst commotion died down, there were people left who still believed in Sherlock. He still had some loyal fans, and Henry Knight still regularly made statements in favour of Sherlock's extraordinary skills, and John's blog was now getting updated on a more or less regular basis again. Not everyone was convinced that Sherlock was a fraud, or that his way of investigation flawed.

Nevertheless, John could hardly contain his surprise the first time he was approached about a case by someone else than Mycroft or Greg. After all, he wasn't Sherlock. Surely even those who had believed in Sherlock would want nothing to do with a lonely retired army doctor.

Yet here was a well-dressed man, a Mr. Gabriels as he had introduced himself, looking a bit out of place in John's tiny apartment. Asking John to find his daughter.

"I have heard good things about you from a friend of mine," he said as John hastened to make some tea in lack of anything else to offer. "Mr. Hathaway, if you'll recall?"

"Oh, I do." One of Mycroft's cases, that. The client had been most grateful, now that he recalled. "I tracked down some lost objects for him." A piece of jewellery worth more than everything John had ever owned in his life, tucked away in the attic. His life could be so absurd sometimes.

"Indeed. He has assured me of your skills." There was a slight frown on his face, lines of worry. "I have informed the police, of course, but they are not doing anything. You have to find my daughter." A perfectly composed expression, voice, yet there was a touch to desperation to it. A man in pain. John felt a touch of sympathy for him.

"So, your daughter. She has run away, you say?"

"That is true." Gabriels nodded. "We had a disagreement of sorts, I'm sorry to say. Next thing I know, she is nowhere to be found. No note, no word, nothing. I assumed she had gone over to a friend's place in a huff, but none of them have any idea where she is."

"And she does not answer her phone?"

"Oh, we have tried calling her at regular intervals. However, it appears she has turned her phone off and we cannot reach her."

John nodded slowly. "And has she done anything like this before?"

"No, never. I mean, we have not always agreed before, but she has never left without telling us before." He wiped his forehead. Slightly overweight, though not fat per se. Obviously wealthy. Used to commanding authority, but genuinely cared about his daughter. "I would have never thought she would do something like this. She didn't even take any money with her, and her card hasn't been used. I am so very worried."

"And none of her friends know anything." John nodded. "Have you asked your servants?"

Gabriels looked somewhat surprised. "I do not recall saying anything about servants."

"Your shirt has been ironed, but your suit pressed. They are both expensive, enough so that you could well afford to have your shirt pressed as well. However, it is more convenient to have it ironed, or perhaps it's a matter of personal preference. You are widowed, so it is not your wife, extremely unlikely you would do it yourself. Furthermore, you have a teenage daughter, one who has been missing for two days now, yet your appearance is immaculate. Likely someone else is responsible for maintaining your clothes, perhaps even choosing them. Also, you used plural when you mentioned calling her, right after stating the police are not doing anything to help. Of course you have servants."

This drew a startled laugh from his client. "I see you are indeed as good as my friend told me."

Not half as good as Sherlock, though. "I presume your fight with your daughter was overheard by others?"

"Ah, yes. I'm ashamed to say we were not entirely quiet." He shook his head. "She did threaten to leave then, but as she showed up for dinner, I thought it was merely empty words. To think that even then she was planning this…"

"Indeed." John frowned. He had a bad feeling about this, one that was more of a hunch than knowledge. Sherlock would have sneered at it. "Keep your phone on you all times." He was not Sherlock.

Gabriels blinked. "You think she will call?" So hopeful. So desperate.

"Oh, I am sure someone will call about her." Which in this case was not a good thing.

Gabriels received the call before nightfall. A demand for ransom. They'd caught his daughter on the street, the criminals told him. A photograph of her, tied and bound, would be in the e-mail.

There were few clues to her location in the picture, but then he needed very few. It was enough to question the servants, then call Lestrade to pass along his clues to the police on the case. There were only so many new servants who owned a place appropriate for holding a prisoner.

A devious little plan, indeed. Wait until the disagreement, then kidnap her from her own home, waiting long enough before calling that they would presume she had been taken by outsiders. Devious, but not quite enough so, luckily for the girl.

Sherlock would have been proud, he thought as he saw the father and daughter untied. Probably complained at him for taking so long, but he would have been proud nevertheless.

When Mr. Gabriels called him later about the payment, he also mentioned that John had forgotten his cane behind.

***

 _It feels like I've been diving through dark water for so long, and now I've finally broken the surface and tasted air again._

_Things look brighter now, somehow. The sun actually shines sometimes, believe it or not, and I wake up in the morning instead of just returning to consciousness, and eating food actually feels like eating instead of just consuming fuel._

_My life has been nothing but shadows and pain since the day I lost Sherlock. I have no doubt that having lost him will always affect how I see the world around me. However, I'm starting to realise I can't just keep mourning forever. I have to move on, for Sherlock's sake as much as my own. I have to live, for all the reasons he chose to live even when his life seemed so bleak and dull and uninteresting._

_I have to share in his flights of fancy, because I know he never wanted me to share his fall._

_I know you won't ever hear this, and would find this most irrational even if you could, but thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for saving me when I was so lost. Thank you for showing me how mad and bright and marvellous this world of ours can be. Thank you for sharing with me all the horrors and miracles of it, for allowing me to fight this war with you._

_Thank you for letting me see that mind, burning brighter than the light of a thousand stars, even if it was only for eighteen short, short months._

_I will never forget you, Sherlock. I don't think I ever could._

_But for now, I will choose to live on, for me, for you. To be your eyes and ears in this mad world that couldn't handle a star as bright as you._

_After all, whether the world knows it or not, it will always need a consulting detective._

John stretched a bit, looking at the text he had written. He could already imagine what would happen when he posted it. If he posted it. Harry would start calling him to make sure he wasn't suicidal, and Greg would give him the sort of uncomfortable gaze that said he wasn't quite sure what to say and how it was to be said, and the occasional whispers and teasing about his supposed love for Sherlock would only intensify. Perhaps Mycroft would like to see him again, too, make some awkward questions about the exact nature of his feelings for the late Holmes, poke and prod to see what was truly going on with him.

With a deep breath and a small smile, he sent the entry to his blog. Who cared what anyone thought. He wasn't breaking, he was feeling better than he had since before the Moriarty mess, and if people wanted to think he had loved Sherlock he quite frankly did not have the energy or interest to keep denying it time and time again. He'd meant every word he'd said.

Getting up from the computer, he walked to the window, looking out. So many people, ordinary people, milling about in their ordinary business. Each with their own private hopes and dreams and fears, none realising just how much they were telling the world just by being in it.

He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he was learning. That man was cheating on his wife, that woman wanted a child so badly it hurt, that business man had just lost a family member but didn't want anyone to see him cry.

Ordinary people, ordinary lives, ordinary problems. And here was John, just as ordinary as them, except he had glimpsed beyond what was ordinary and knew there was a whole wide world on the other side.

Sherlock had shown him so much. The least he could do was keep seeing it instead of just hiding away from the world in his pain and fear.

It could not be the same, of course, nothing would ever be the same without Sherlock. However, there was no need for him to act as though he was the one who had died.

It was just one of the things he owed to Sherlock.

***

The cafe where he sat was full of people chatting and smiling and going through their shopping bags. Here someone spoke on his phone about a list, there someone tried to keep her bag away from the child with her. John kept an eye on them, occasionally telling someone apologetically that the other seat at the table was, unfortunately, already taken.

"Ah, Christmas. The time of secrets." Mycroft chuckled a bit as he sat down opposite to John. "When lies and deceit become the norm for even the most good-mannered housewives."

"Indeed." John's lips twitched as he followed the scene. It was so easy, getting caught in the December flurry. He'd already gotten contacts from three separate kids who all wanted him to find out what they were getting for Christmas.

December. How the time flew.

It had been half a year without Sherlock, now.

It would have seemed impossible, at one time, that he would survive this long without Sherlock, that the world would keep turning this long without Sherlock. Yet here they were, Mycroft and John both, and the world seemed remarkably unaffected by the lack of the original consulting detective.

He wasn't even sure if it was a comforting thought or a sad one.

"There is something I would like to discuss with you." Though Mycroft had the same pleasant smile as always, John knew him well enough by now to know he had something serious on his mind. Something to do with John, that was, not his usual matters of national security.

"And what would that be?" John raised his eyebrows. "I'm fairly sure I haven't gotten into any remarkable spot of trouble lately."

"Not trouble per se. In any case, this is not about anything you have done recently." Well, wasn't that an interesting choice of words. "Do you recognise this woman, by any chance?"

John frowned as he saw the picture Mycroft offered him. A blonde woman, pale skin, happy smile, vaguely familiar. "Of course I do. That's Mary, I dated her for a while last year. What about her?"

"She passed away last night."

John's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"A very unfortunate case." Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella. "Hit by a car in an intersection, as I heard. She hit her head on the pavement rather badly. There was not much anyone could do. This is not a case, if you were wondering; the driver was soon apprehended and now faces charges."

"So why are you telling me this?" John narrowed his eyes. "You know better than to expect me to be sentimental over a woman I haven't seen in well over a year. Not that it surprises me that you would keep an eye on everyone I have happened to sleep with." 

"Not everyone, no. However, I would be quite careless not to keep a close eye on someone who has a child nine months later."

John's stomach dropped in an unpleasant lurch. "No."

"Oh, yes. Little Benedict was born right around the time of Sherlock's passing. Under the circumstances, she felt no inclination to contact you about him, and a generous allowance made sure she did not bother you about the matter afterwards, either."

"You bribed her to keep my child from me." He wasn't sure if he should have blamed or thanked Mycroft.

"Yes." No shame whatsoever. "At the time, it was not unthinkable that you might harm yourself; it did not seem like a good idea to bring the stress of an infant to the mix. However, now you are much better, poor Mary is dead, and you are the child's only living relative. I felt you would at least want to know."

"I see." John sighed. "I trust you have already established the connection?" Because Mycroft never did anything based on assumptions. He was a thorough man, especially in matters that were even marginally related to Sherlock.

"A while ago. He is your child without a doubt." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "The question being, what will you do now?"

"You mean I have a choice?" Mary had no family, he knew that even without Mycroft's information. Meaning that the child — his child — had nobody left. Nobody but him, in any case.

"Of course you have a choice." But of course, with Mycroft sticking his fingers in the metaphorical pie. "If you wish to take him, I will handle the legal matters. If you'd rather continue with your life as before, I will make sure he ends up in a suitable family and is well cared for. It is your choice."

John nodded slowly. "A choice I should make very soon, I assume."

"Your son has just come seven months old, John. He needs someone to take care of him. I know this is sudden, but the sooner you make up your mind, the better. For both of you."

"I see." His son. A little baby, his baby. Frightened and alone, now. "Benedict, you said?"

"That is correct." Mycroft nodded. "Before you ask, he is unharmed. He was in a neighbour's care while Mary was out, so he wasn't involved in the accident."

"Good." God, he sounded so stupid. But what was he supposed to say, anyway? It wasn't like he'd had illegitimate children before. To his knowledge, at least.

"John?" A gentle prod, but firm.

"…May I see him?"

***

Mary's neighbour was a fussy, elderly lady. She alternated between crying about Mary's terrible fate and scolding John for his irresponsible actions. Obviously he should have magically divined the existence of his child. He decided it would be futile to try to explain the actual situation to her. Besides, he was here for Benedict.

Even though he had known to expect an infant, he was still somewhat surprised by how small Benedict really was. Quite healthy for a baby his age, Mycroft had told him, yet to John he seemed very small and fragile. It was irrational, of course, it wasn't like he'd never seen or handled infants before, but he couldn't help but feel hesitant as he saw the tiny thing that was his son.

"He is just starting to learn to crawl," the lady finally deigned to tell him as John watched the baby picking up a toy. The accusation was clear in her voice, how much had he missed and why hadn't he been there, but then that was hardly any of her business far as John was concerned.

Benedict had very little hair, but what he did have was brown like his, with a tendency to curl at the tip just like Mary's. His eyes were a deep baby blue instead of her green, though, giving John a curious gaze when he crouched down before returning to the toy.

"He cried most of last night," she informed him. "Misses his mother no doubt, the poor child."

"I see." He swallowed. Of course he would miss his mother; she was the only family he had known. Nobody could give him back his mother, though, not even all of Mycroft's networks.

Just learning to crawl. He didn't even know how to walk yet, the little thing. Didn't know how to run, and wouldn't learn for a good while yet. He'd only get in the way, demand his time and attention at the most inappropriate times. John's flat was unsuitable for a child, too; he'd have to look for somewhere else to live. His job wasn't exactly safe, either. Could he in good conscience take in a child who might be put into danger because of that? Could he let Benedict grow fond of him, too, only to have someone rob him away as well?

Benedict looked at him again, eyes big and blue with just a hint of tears in them. Looked around, then, maybe looking for his mummy.

Mycroft would keep his word, John knew that. He'd find a good family for Benedict, someone who would love him and care him like he were their own. The poor baby wouldn't get stuck in the system for long.

Benedict dropped his toy all of a sudden, face crunching up in a sharp cry. John reached for him on instinct more than anything, carefully lifting him from the floor. He was terribly light, John noted, but surprisingly strong as his hand clutched onto John's arm. Holding him against his chest, John murmured something he would have hesitated to call words, more focused on calming the child down than conveying any understandable message.

It took a moment for Benedict to calm down. As he did, though, he rested quietly against John's chest, the occasional little sob still escaping his chest. So very small, and so very alone.

There were baby slings, John thought idly, ones that would allow him to walk around with the kid with his hands still free. And Mrs. Hudson would surely love to babysit for him every now and then. It was about time he got out of the ratty flat, anyway.

By the time he realised he had made up his mind, there was no going back.


	2. Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little help from Greg and under the watchful eye of Mycroft, John learns to balance his cases and a child in need of his support. However, after three years of being on his own, John makes a startling discovery.

"Thank you for coming to help, Greg." John gave his friend a faint smile. "I know you don't have that much free time. Sorry you have to waste it with me."

"Helping a friend is hardly a waste." Greg chuckled. "Not that you seem to have much stuff to move in, mind."

"Yeah, well, the rest will arrive later." Mycroft had told him Benedict's things would be delivered soon. Knowing him, there would be more than what he'd originally had, but then John wasn't going to complain. He had absolutely no idea what kind of things a baby needed in daily life.

"So." Greg gave him a suspicious gaze. "What is it? You're acting all weird, and moving back is the least of it. Not that I'm not glad you're out of that little hole, but why now? Feeling nostalgic about Christmas?"

"Let's just say I didn't ask you here to help me move in, per se." John paused, trying to decide how to best put his news. "There's also baby proofing to be done."

"Wait, what?" Greg's eyes widened. "A baby? Where?"

"Here. Soon." John wasn't sure if he should smile or sigh or what. "Turns out I'm a father, Greg. And now the mother is dead, leaving me with the child."

"Bloody hell. So that's what he meant."

"Hm?" John glanced at him. "What who meant?"

"Mycroft. I saw him yesterday and he said he had something to discuss with you."

"Yes, he met me yesterday and told me." John shook his head. "This is all moving so fast, I'm still not sure it's not all a dream. I suppose it's lucky Mycroft's been paying the rent here all this time, my place is really not a place to take a child." He supposed he was lucky, not for the first time, to be under Mycroft's very strong wing. Not that he was an expert, but his gut feeling told him that most such cases required quite a bit more paper work and bureaucracy.

"Well, neither is this, not until we clean it out." Greg looked around in the familiar clutter of the living room. Mrs. Hudson had clearly been around sometimes, dusting and putting things in order, but the sheer amount of things made it look untidy. "So how old is this surprise kid of yours?"

"Seven months. Just learning to crawl." So very small. "Meaning I have some time before I have to worry about table level and up, but anywhere within his reach, we'll have to take away anything small or poisonous or otherwise dangerous."

"That's no small number of things, I'll say." Greg clicked his tongue. "You at least have somewhere to put the things?"

"Sherlock's room, for now. Most of them are his things anyway." He felt Greg's concerned gaze even without looking. "I'll clean them out eventually, Greg. Ask Mycroft to take them, perhaps, if he wants. Right now I have to focus on the baby."

"Right. Just as long as you're sure."

John sighed. "I am over his death, Greg, don't worry. I wouldn't have come back here if I wasn't. That doesn't mean I'm ready to handle going through his things yet, not when I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I'm a father."

"Right." Greg nodded, then started quietly gathering some of the small ornaments and gadgets that Sherlock had surrounded himself with. "The fridge's cleaned out, I presume?"

"Mrs. Hudson assures me she emptied the whole kitchen soon after I moved out." The last thing he wanted to think about was finding some decomposed human remains lying around. "Reminds me, I'll have to go and get some groceries before Benedict is brought here." So many things to do. And for the most part, he had no idea what he was doing, himself.

"Calm down, John. We'll get everything done, all right?" Greg patted his shoulder, then smiled. "Benedict? That's a pretty name."

"I guess." John chuckled faintly. "Sounds more like a Holmes than a Watson to me. I can only hope he won't turn out quite as insufferable."

"Just call him Ben if that's what you're worried about."

"Like that could deter a true Holmes spirit." John snorted as he gathered some marbles from the table. If those rolled to the floor, it'd be an instant deathtrap for an infant.

"Indeed." Greg murmured a curse as he accidentally knocked down a pile of magazines. "One would hope any kid raised by you would have at least a basic understanding of good manners, though."

"Considering that the surviving Holmes influence is Mycroft, I'm more concerned with teaching him not to kidnap people for fun and profit."

Greg laughed as he started gathering the magazines. "Mycroft does make a habit of that, doesn't he?"

"Don't tell me he's kidnapped you, too." It was one thing when it was him, but a DI? Even for Mycroft, that was going a bit too far.

"Just once or twice. I think I convinced him quite soon that I do not appreciate getting abducted."

"What did he want from you, anyway?" Come to think of it, Greg had mentioned talking with Mycroft the day before. "I get why he wants to keep an eye on me, but you, too? Really?"

"It's less a case of keeping an eye on me and more working together." Greg shrugged. "We've been cooperating on a project ever since he got me back to work. God knows why he'd need someone like me, but then I'm not convinced he doesn't consider himself God."

John laughed. "Sounds like Mycroft all right."

"I swear, if anyone can have a bigger ego than Sherlock, it's Mycroft." Greg paused. "Sorry."

"I told you, I'm over it." John shook his head. "I'm going to have to get gates for the staircases, aren't I?" Focus. Concentrate on Benedict, now.

"Unless you plan on standing guard your every waking second, yes. Do you even have anything for the child? Crib or high chair or anything?"

"Mycroft assured me that he'll have everything necessary sent over before Benedict arrives. We'll put his crib in my room for now."

"You going to make use of the second bedroom at some point?" You going to get rid of Sherlock's belongings?

"All in due time. Right now I'm more concerned with the challenge of teaching him that I'm supposed to be his family, now."

"Suppose that's a fair order of priorities." Greg gave him a slow nod, a thoughtful look on his face. "If you ever need help, just ask, you know. I know it's been a while since the girls were that small, but I haven't forgotten everything yet."

"Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it." And he did. Right now he felt quite lost, to be honest; to have a friend to rely on was a huge relief.

"I hope you realise you'll have to write about him in your blog, too," Greg added with an almost teasing tone. "And not just little mentions during your cases about who babysat him while you were running after the bad guys. Actual proper entries about the kid. I'm sure there's people at the Yard who'd be dying to know how John Watson does as a parent."

"You still read it, even without Sherlock?" John was genuinely surprised.

"Of course. Believe it or not, there are people who didn't see you as an extension of him. Quite frankly, I think a lot more people liked you than ever liked Sherlock." Greg shook his head. "For most people on the force, he was the necessary evil. You made working with him more tolerable."

"So nice to know my worth." He wasn't even sure whether he should have felt happy or insulted or what. "I'll try, okay? Not sure how good I'll be at blogging about lullabies and nappies, but I'll try."

"Right." Greg gave him a smile. "For what it's worth, I'm sure you'll be a fantastic father."

"I can only hope."

After all, he didn't exactly have many options right now.

***

 _16th December_

_It has been a while since I set foot in 221B. Half a year since I actually lived here, a little less since I last picked up some of my belongings, yet a lifetime since it felt like a home, our home. It still doesn't, not quite, not with everything so quiet and dead._

_The skull is still here, of course, just like everything else. Mrs. Hudson has been keeping a close eye on everything, bless her, and even though she's not our housekeeper there isn't a speck of dust anywhere. It's almost as though we just stepped out for a day or two, except it took me half a year to return and Sherlock never will._

_It's still not just my home, though, I wouldn't have returned if it were. It's still ours, though now the one sharing with me is Benedict and not Sherlock. Thankfully he doesn't mind living in the middle of Sherlock's things. It's probably going to take me quite a while to pack those away. Even though I know Sherlock isn't going to show up and interrogate me about what I'm doing with his things, it still doesn't feel quite right. Besides, if it was only my things and Benedict's around here, the place would be quite empty._

_I'll worry about cleaning up later, though. Right now Benedict is demanding my attention._

_I guess the skull will stay, in any case, regardless of what I do with the rest of his things. Even though it is quite the poor substitute for Sherlock._

***

Benedict was asleep.

This probably shouldn't have felt like such a bloody accomplishment, but at the moment, John was going to take what he could get. At least the child wasn't screaming his head off because John wasn't the one he wanted. Right now, that was a big step forward.

After the army and Sherlock, he had thought he would be quite prepared for the demands of a small child. As it turned out, things were not quite that simple. At least in the army he had known what his duties were, more or less, and Sherlock had never failed to make it clear just what he wanted from John, even if his motivations had not always been equally clear. However, none of his previous experiences had prepared him for the sheer desperate helplessness of holding a crying baby and being unable to soothe him.

It wasn't that he didn't know the technical side, really. Just because he wasn't a pediatrician didn't mean he didn't know the basics. However, when his son was fed and dry and warm and safe and still kept crying no matter what he tried, it started to get frustrating.

The poor child missed his mother, reminded a cruel little voice at the back of his mind. He was foolish to think he could ever take her place, that he could ever be as good. He should have known better to begin with.

Except there was no way for him to give Benedict his mother, not now. The best he could do was hold the crying child and hopefully reassure him that someone still cared for him and loved him and was willing to sacrifice half the night so he could sleep.

Despite his exhaustion he stayed beside the crib for a moment, silent. A part of him almost expected the baby to start screaming again, afraid to even breathe too hard lest he startle the tired child awake. Leaning over the crib, he looked down at Benedict.

The child was so small, finally laid down to sleep, one hand curled over his mouth. So very vulnerable, his son, and so very much dependent on him.

Benedict needed John. Not like his men in Afghanistan had needed him, to keep them patched together where possible, not even like Sherlock, who would oftentimes forget to sleep or eat if someone didn't remind him. Benedict could not take responsibility for himself, could not seek out anyone else's help, could not even tell him what he needed. All the poor child could do was cry when something was wrong, cry and hope that someone heard him and gave him relief. And because his mother would not come no matter how he cried, it fell upon John to keep him happy. To keep him alive.

He'd been responsible for other people's lives before. He was a doctor, a surgeon, a soldier; it had been part and parcel of his life for most of his adult years. However, that responsibility had always been momentary, situational. It had never felt quite as heavy as the weight that settled upon his shoulders as he looked down at the tiny little human being he had promised to care for in every way.

"Good night, Benedict," he murmured under his breath, then turned to get into bed.

He would be of little help to his son if he collapsed in exhaustion, after all.

***

 _25th December_

_It has been a strange Christmas._

_There's barely been a quiet moment in 221B, even though it seems oddly empty without Sherlock here. Still going to take some getting used to, I guess, especially when everyone else is dropping by. At least when it's just Benedict and I, I can conveniently forget he hasn't just stepped outside for a moment. When everyone else is hurrying about, his absence is somehow more pronounced._

_Greg has been here because his girls are with their mother today. They'll be at his place tomorrow, but for today he's been here with the two of us. Other people have been dropping by as well, to meet Benedict, I presume. Even Sherlock's brother came around for a bit. He and Benedict get along famously, believe it or not._

_Harry came by with her new girlfriend. They're rather cute together. (No, Harry, that doesn't mean I'm interested in your woman. Stop it.) I just hope this goes well for them; she deserves to be happy, even if she is annoying at times. (And yes, you are. You brought Ben a laser pistol with "realistic" sound effects. He doesn't play with it and you knew it, you were just trying to annoy me.)_

_All in all, though, it's been a surprisingly merry Christmas. Or, well, as much so as it can be without Sherlock here._

***

John wasn't exactly surprised that Mycroft decided to grace them with his presence the day before Benedict's actual birthday. He had been invited to the actual birthday gathering on the proper date, only to turn it down very politely due to prior engagements. Given that this was Mycroft, John wasn't even going to try to guess whether that was a genuine reason or a more polite way of saying "I'd rather not have an infant throw cake at me." Nevertheless, Mycroft's unannounced appearance the day before was, if not expected, not much of a shock either.

"Benedict? Uncle Mycroft came to visit us." John picked up a few of the toys on the way to the living room but did not worry too much about the mess. If Mycroft chose to drop by without warning, he had better tolerate a bit of everyday life, too.

"Uncle?" Mycroft navigated neatly his path through scattered plastic blocks on the floor, taking his usual seat in an armchair. "I count as honorary family, now?"

"You come around more often than Harry, and she's his actual aunt." John walked over to where Benedict was chasing his ball across the kitchen floor. "Hell, you're here more than Greg sometimes, and he's certainly been enthusiastic enough to claim the uncle title."

"Your sister does not live close enough to make regular visits, Greg's schedule is difficult to navigate at best, and I still have to give you cases."

"Yet you rarely visited in person before." John carried Benedict to the centre of the room, setting him down on his feet a few adult paces from Mycroft. "See, Ben, here's Mycroft."

"My," Ben said, grinning as he tugged at John's fingers. "My!"

"As you might recall, I often came here in person before Sherlock's passing," Mycroft remarked. "We both know even you were relieved to be out of your horrid apartment as much as possible. It was a matter of location, not Benedict's presence."

"Which explains the gifts you keep bringing him, I'm sure." John chuckled. "Okay, Ben, go to Uncle Mycroft. See what he's got with him now."

"My, John, you make me sound so softhearted." And yet he leaned ever so slightly forward. "Well, Benedict?"

A very determined look took over Benedict's little face. Sucking in his lower lip, he let go of John's fingers and started his way toward Mycroft with small but surprisingly steady steps. A couple of times he wavered, who whole walking thing still something of a novelty in his skill set, but John forced himself to stay back. The worst that could happen was a little bump and a cry, and if he panicked, it'd just make Ben afraid to even try.

Little hands fell on Mycroft's knees, and Benedict let out a triumphant little giggle. Mycroft smiled indulgently, reaching a very prim hand to pat messy light hair.

"You've grown a lot, Benedict." Why did Mycroft's tone make it sound almost like an evaluation? "I do look forward to seeing how you will do in life."

"My." Benedict looked at him with determined blue eyes. "Sent!"

John chuckled. "I do believe he is referring to present."

"But of course." Mycroft lifted the bag he had been carrying into his lap, reaching into it. "Happy birthday, Benedict Watson. I do hope you have many more."

John blinked as he watched Mycroft lifting out a worn, clearly very loved teddy bear, and handing it to the child. "That, ah, looks old." His most polite way of saying 'You're usually the type to buy new stuff.'

"That would be because it is." Mycroft smiled as Benedict laughed in delight, hugging the bear close even as he fell down on his behind. "It belonged to Sherlock when he was a child. He would simply not go to sleep without it."

"Ah." John swallowed. "Um. I."

"John." Mycroft looked at him seriously. "Little Benedict is not a replacement for Sherlock. I know neither of us thinks that. However, I do hope you'll forgive me for bestowing upon him some of the affection I might be directing at my brother, were he still among us." His smile took on an almost teasing quality. "After all, as your son, he is the closest thing to an offspring of Sherlock this world could ever hope to see."

"I can't believe I'm still saying this a year after his death, and to you of all people, but we were not actually a couple." There was something almost surreal about the words even to John himself, some strange quality that made him pause. Perhaps it was the seemingly unlikely fact that he was talking about Sherlock's death, acknowledging that he was gone, without it feeling painful. There was the familiar ache, still, the very large part of his heart that seemed to be missing, but now he could mention it as a part of regular conversation, at least.

"Oh, I'm well aware. However, I also know very well that Sherlock loved you."

"Yes, I know. His only friend, as he put it."

"I do not believe that was all of it." Mycroft steepled his fingers, his eyes following Benedict's bumpy little wrestling match with his new friend. "To the best of my knowledge, Sherlock did love you, John. Not in a sexual manner, but then he never put much stock in sex."

John shook his head, searching for words. "If he loved me, he wouldn't have jumped."

Mycroft sighed. "When people come to that point, they rarely think of other people. If anything, he might have well thought that you would be better off without him than dragged down with him."

"Except he should have known it wouldn't happen." John shook his head. "There wasn't any evidence. There never was any evidence. He should have known."

"Perhaps he felt cornered. After all, Moriarty did have the public opinion on his side." Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily. "I do believe you have the best understanding of his motives out of anyone alive, John. After all, you were the one to receive his last words."

"Except they didn't make any sense." None if it had ever made sense. "He was lying to me. He had to be. None of what he said was true."

"Sherlock never said anything without a reason." As though he didn't know that. "Even if they seem nonsensical to us, his words must have carried some meaning."

John shook his head again, playing the conversation back in his mind. He could still remember it, every word of it, every bit of desperation in Sherlock's voice, every sound that almost sounded like a sob…

It suddenly hit him. The realisation must have shown on his face, as Mycroft gave him a sharp look. "John?"

"His phone." Of course. Of bloody course. "Did you ever examine his phone?"

"To an extent, yes. The call log to you, along with some evidence of communication between him and someone he met on the roof that day, likely the same person who kindly left behind significant amounts of blood and brain matter yet managed to vanish afterwards. Greg and I call him Moriarty, but of course we cannot take an official stance on that."

"There has to be something else." Suddenly, he knew it, knew it with the utmost certainty. "He said it was his note, Mycroft. 'This is my note,' those exact words. I always thought he meant the conversation, but he never had much faith in my memory." He cursed himself for not realising it before. "He was talking about the phone, he had to be! Why else would he have bothered to toss it aside before jumping? There has to be something on that phone that explains why he did it!"

Mycroft hesitated for one brief, uncharacteristic moment, then nodded slowly. "There is some merit to that."

"You'll check it, right?" Of course they would. "You'll check the phone? See if Sherlock left anything?"

"At our earliest convenience." Mycroft's hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella. "I will inform you if anything is found."

"Thank you." John finally sank down in his own chair, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "I, just, thank you, Mycroft."

"No, John. Thank you, for bringing this to my attention." Mycroft's tone was quiet but sincere. "I see my brother made the right choice in trusting you with his last message."

John quite doubted it, but right now he wasn't about to bring that up.

On the floor, Benedict laughed, hugging the teddy bear close.

***

"So." Greg sighed, looking at John over his desk. "We looked into Sherlock's phone."

"And?" He felt almost afraid to ask, yet at the same time he had to. He knew there was something, Greg wouldn't have asked him here if there wasn't anything. "What did you find?"

"Not much of interest. In fact, the only thing that stood out was one thing." Greg reached for the phone, resting on the desk between them. "One voice recording."

"His note." John's heart jumped in his chest. "That has to be it. That has to be his real note."

"I'll have to warn you, John. The recording is timed as having been saved on the phone right before he called you." Greg paused. "There are two voices audible on it."

"Moriarty." It couldn't be anyone else.

"From what we can tell, yes. Of course, we'd appreciate your confirmation, as you have actually dealt with him directly outside his little game of false identities."

"Of course." John nodded. He really didn't want to hear Moriarty, not right now, not ever, but it would be worth it for the chance to hear Sherlock again.

No matter what it was Sherlock had to say.

"I can get you the full transcript if you wish," Greg said as he looked through the phone's files. "However, for the most relevant part, I really think you should hear it for yourself."

He pressed 'play'.

"Let me give you an extra incentive." Moriarty's voice was somewhat muffled, through the coat pocket no doubt, but it was still audible enough to desperate ears. "Your friends will die if you don't."

John's lungs emptied in one sharp, almost painful breath. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. Greg's face was grim, but he didn't say anything.

"John." Sherlock's voice came after a pause, low, a bit rough. John closed his eyes, imagining the expression that would necessarily accompany such a tone.

"Not just John. Everyone." Moriarty sounded like he was bragging.

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Everyone."

"Lestrade." John opened his eyes to look at Greg. He saw a painful look on his friend's face, one that he knew was reflected on his own.

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now." Another pause that seemed to drag on forever. "Unless my people see you jump."

John's eyes fell shut again. However, he did hear the faint sound of Greg reaching to stop the recording.

"We listened to the rest of it, too." His voice was tight, controlled. "Basically, Moriarty confirms his plan, and his insanity. Then Sherlock figures out that Moriarty must have a code to call off the assassins."

"But he didn't call them off," John said quietly. "He jumped instead."

"Yes. Because, as I said, Moriarty confirmed his insanity." Greg swallowed. "He shot himself. The bastard shot himself rather than let Sherlock pry it out of him."

"Bloody hell." Sure, it wasn't very eloquent, but it did adequately sum up his feelings right now. "Bloody fucking hell. He did it for us, Greg. Sherlock jumped to keep us safe."

"So it would seem."

"I pleaded with him, Greg. Bargained at his grave. Asked him not to be dead, for his sake. I was so angry." He drew a deep breath. "And it was all because of me."

"He always was a great man," Greg murmured. "It was just the price of his becoming a good one that was too steep."

"Moriarty is lucky," John murmured, his fists clenching. "If he was alive, I would track him down. And I would not give him such a gentle end."

"He is not, though. And even if he were, I wouldn't let you. You need to stay here, for Ben's sake."

Benedict. Right. Benedict needed him. Calm down, John. It would do no good to get angry at a long-dead man only to end up neglecting his very much alive son.

Greg was quiet for a moment. "It's not your fault," he said then, his tone quiet. "It's not my fault, either, or Mrs. Hudson's fault." It might have been more convincing if he hadn't sounded like he was chanting a mantra to remind himself of the fact. "The only one who is to blame for this is Moriarty."

"Right. Moriarty." The one who had stolen everything from him and then escaped his revenge.

***

 _23rd June_

_Benedict is finally asleep._

_One would think I were used to it, getting someone to sleep when they are exhausted but too stubborn to admit it. However, Ben is quite different from Sherlock. For one thing, he needs more sleep to begin with, so I can't just give up and leave him. For another, Sherlock was never quite so clingy when sleepy._

_Once they do go down, though, they are quite similar in sleep. Dark lashes, messy hair, pouty mouth, and yes, Sherlock did pout every now and then. Not like he'd have ever admitted it, though._

_I'm starting to feel quite sleepy, too, but unlike lucky Ben, I can't quite go to sleep just yet. I need to go through the files on the latest case for tomorrow so we can go out hunting for leads._

_I hope Ben likes museums, because I have a feeling we're going to see several of them tomorrow._

***

"You know, much though I love the kid, sometimes it's just nice to be out alone." John paused, taking a swig of his beer before adding, "I mean, alone as in without the child. Not alone alone." Bless Mrs. Hudson and her patient heart.

"I figured as much." Greg chuckled. "Believe me, I know damn well what it's like to have a toddler in the house, and at least I had a break when I went to work. You've got a saint's patience, carrying him around all the time."

"It's that or cut back on work, and I'd rather not risk my sanity when I'm responsible for someone else. And don't look at me like that. We both know I'd have trouble keeping it together if I just sat around without anything to do but change nappies all day."

Greg raised his hands in a defencive gesture. "Hey, don't look at me. I've seen you when you're bad. As long as you're not taking the kid to a firefight, you're not going to hear me saying you should slow down."

"To be fair, my worst time was right after Sherlock's death." Just saying it still made him feel cold, however long it had been.

"But it was getting back to work that dragged you out of that mess."

"Getting back to work and the bloody stubborn people in my life, you mean." John smiled. He was quite grateful for the stubborn people pulling him back to life. Without them all, he probably would have fulfilled Mycroft's prediction of following Sherlock to the grave, never mind being able to take care of Ben when he needed it.

"Ah, yes. The stubborn people. Hate those." Greg grinned at him. There was a hint of something else to his expression, though, a certain kind of tension John wasn't sure he liked.

"Some stubborn person bothering you?"

"Huh?" Greg blinked. "Did I say something?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering since you looked strange for a moment there." John gave him a closer look, doing his best to observe instead of just seeing, as Sherlock had told him so often. He was really getting good at this, though compared with his late friend he was obviously nothing but a child making guesses. "You know, you look awfully fresh for someone who supposedly just came around for a pint after a long day at work."

"What do you mean?" Ah, a nice and quick response.

"You've obviously shaved, and your shirt is clean. I rather doubt you'd bother to do that just for a chat between friends."

"Ah, yeah." And here came the sheepish grin. Well, it was much better than the tension, at least. "I may have some plans for tonight."

"Really, now?" John echoed his grin. "Big plans?"

"Something like that." Greg looked a bit embarrassed but happy nevertheless. "I've got a date."

"Seriously? I thought you haven't gone on a date since the divorce." Not that he was keeping count, but the people at the Yard were, and it was rather hard to avoid any gossip as long as Donovan was privy to it.

"Yeah, well, figured it's been long enough. So, when someone interesting asked me, I said yes."

"Someone asked you?" Somehow he'd always taken Greg to be the kind of old-fashioned man who preferred taking the first step himself. "Anyone I know?"

"I'd imagine so." He chuckled. "Let's just say it's a very stubborn person."

John frowned. That wasn't a very specific description, granted, but within the context of their conversation, it gave a rather limited range of possibilities. And considering these, he could really only come to one conclusion. "You must be kidding."

"Hm? Something the matter?" Greg was still smiling, but the tension was back. He was wary of how John would react. Understandable, given the issue.

"How would you end up having a date with Mycroft bloody Holmes?"

"I just told you. He asked, I said yes." Greg shrugged. "Maybe I'm insane, but hey, it can't be worse than working with him."

"Except you're going to be on a date. In a romantic context. A date with a Holmes."

"Because a date with a Holmes is going to be so very romantic, I'm sure." Greg shrugged. "I'm not exactly expecting a fairytale romance, John. Most of the time I'm convinced he's had his heart replaced with a computer. But he's a fascinating man, and frankly he needs someone to drag him out of the work context, if only for a moment."

"And you think you can do that?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I'll end up wanting to wring his scrawny little Holmes neck five minutes into it. No way I'll know without giving it a try, though."

"I suppose." John raised his pint. "To a hopefully non-catastrophic date?"

"Hell, I'll drink to that."

It wasn't until quite some time later that John realised he hadn't been on a date since before Sherlock's death, himself.

***

 _7th November_

_There are times when Benedict reminds me of Sherlock. Not only because they are both given to tantrums when they do not get their way, or make noise at ungodly hours when by all rights they should be fast asleep. Benedict also seems to share his tendency to notice things I would overlook. Of course, he lacks the deductive powers and endless roves of seemingly unconnected trivia, but nevertheless, the case today would have taken much longer to unravel if Benedict hadn't drawn my attention to the strange sound in the warehouse._

_Naturally, there are differences, too. While Benedict may be fussy about what he eats, in the end he will always happily eat something at least, and makes sure to tell me if he is hungry. He is also more affectionate than Sherlock, giving me hugs and kisses rather than insults to my intelligence._

_I miss Sherlock._

***

"Two years, huh." Greg looked around in the cramped room. At one time it had been the most organised place in the apartment, but that had changed over time as more and more of Sherlock's belongings had been put away to make room for the daily life in the rest of 221B. "So, what are you going to do with all this stuff?"

"That's what we need to figure out." John sighed, shaking his head. "I'll probably keep most of his books; I can always put up some more shelves. Mycroft said he wants any notes Sherlock might have left behind, as well as any sentimental items I don't want to keep myself. Clothes will be donated since I don't know anyone they would fit, and for the rest, well. We'll see."

"Let's get started, then." Greg grinned, though there wasn't much actual mirth behind it. "Ben's going to love his new room."

"It's about time." John sighed as he started looking through the nearest pile. "His things are getting everywhere nowadays; it'll be good to get a place where he can keep his toys. Maybe he'll also sleep better in his own room." Or at least stop getting woken up by his father.

Greg nodded sympathetically. "Nightmares?" He started going through a pile of books, setting aside magazines and hand-written notes in separate piles.

"That and the calls in the middle of the night, yeah." Ah, the sock index. How the same man who kept his socks organised could fail to find his own passport in a hurry was still quite beyond John. "Not that I expect him to sleep on his own for a while yet, considering he has a bad habit of crawling into my bed even though we're in the same room at night."

"Kids often do that, yeah." Greg chuckled. "You going to keep Sherlock's bed for him?"

"We'll see." For him there were so many memories, of dragging an unconscious Sherlock to bed or forcing a reluctant detective to stop ruining his back on the couch. However, that was about him, and about the past. He had to think of Benedict, now. "Obviously he doesn't need such a big bed for a long while yet, and it takes up a lot of room that he could use for playing."

"He could play on the bed, though. Would be great to bounce on, I bet."

"Maybe." Ben did love driving his cars all over John's bed. "His current bed will be too small soon."

"Maybe see how he likes it?" More notes in the pile for Mycroft. "Think Ben would like this molecular model?"

"Depends on if it breaks apart. Wouldn't want him to choke on the parts, after all." It did look pretty, with coloured spheres combined in an intricate structure with fine beams. However, his son was sadly still in the phase where most pretty things belonged in the mouth.

"Seems pretty well glued together." Greg tugged at a few of the spheres, but they did not come loose.

"Put it aside, then." So many things to go through. There were a few objects he couldn't even remember seeing before, even though he had packed most of them into the room with his own hands. Others brought on a flood of memories when he even looked at them, images and sounds and smells from the past filling his mind. This was the book he had barely saved from acid during a botched experiment, there was the shirt Sherlock had worn during that particularly confounding investigation, that pen had somehow turned out to be decisive evidence in a seemingly hopeless case.

He could almost see it, the pale hand closing around the pen, slender fingers twiddling with it, tossing it in the air for a spin. Catching it, ever so deft, as the grin of triumph spread on the pale face and he went off on another one of his convoluted explanations. John could still recall it, word for brilliant word, and in retrospect it all seemed so clear, so very obvious. Rare were the times that he had not been able to follow a deduction as it was broken down for him to see, the inevitable bonds from cause to consequence brought out for all to see.

A touch to his shoulder startled him, making him spin around. He found Greg looking at him with a concerned expression. "You all right, mate?"

"Ah, yeah." John drew a deep breath. "Just, ah, got caught up in the memories."

"I'd imagine." Greg nodded slowly. "You spent a long time with him."

"Not really." John managed a wistful smile. "He's already been dead longer than I ever knew him." It seemed absurd, to think that his time with Sherlock had not stretched out to infinity like the overwhelming weight of memories seemed to indicate. But then, it was also surreal to suggest that he had not been alone forever, had not felt this gnawing pain in his chest ever since he had first drawn breath.

"Doesn't change the fact that he turned your life upside down." Greg's expression echoed his own. "It sure seems to be a Holmes trait."

"So I've come to understand." He still didn't understand much about how Greg exactly related to Mycroft, but it was at least clear enough that he, too, had been caught in the Holmes net beyond pure professional interest. "How is it going with your own genius, anyway?"

"Growing a bit morose as the anniversary approaches." Greg shook his head. "He thinks I don't notice, but it's quite obvious in the way he acts. If I asked him, he'd probably say something about how it isn't useful to mourn someone who is already dead."

"And caring for the living doesn't help one save them." Such a familiar attitude, not that he was about to trust those words. "Except that is exactly how Sherlock managed to save us."

"He never was one for rules." Little more than a murmur. "Even the ones that he set himself."

"But then, he always cared more than he wanted to admit." John sighed. "Let's get on with it. We only have so much time before Molly brings Ben back, and chatting about Sherlock won't help us get this mess out of the way."

"Right." Greg started disassembling the pile again. Then, after the silence had dragged on for a while, he spoke again, sounding somewhat awkward. "You know, he did love you. In his own weird way. Sherlock, I mean."

"Oh, I'm aware." His lips twitched into a small, rueful smile. "And I loved him, or I'd have ditched the crazy bastard ages ago." He laughed, then, though the tears stung in his eyes.

Time to get the room cleaned for Ben.

***

 _6th August_

_Benedict has taken quite the liking to the skull, it seems._

_Of course, most people take one of two approaches to the skull. Some are freaked out, declaring it creepy and inappropriate, perhaps asking who Sherlock killed to get it if they are suspicious enough of him. Others regard it with kind of a morbid fascination, until they finally get used to its presence around here. After that, they may make some jokes about it, but most still prefer to ignore it._

_Benedict never thought twice about the matter. I set the skull aside when I was cleaning the living room earlier, and when I peeked in from the kitchen, I found my darling quite contently curled up for a nap with it. He seemed to be sleeping quite well, too._

_I'd say something about how he's at least not likely to gang up against me with the skull, but from my experiences with Sherlock, I don't dare be quite sure. I suppose I won't waste my time worrying as long as Benedict doesn't talk to it._

_I do draw the line at feeding the skull, though. There are some things not even the prettiest blue eyes will make me do._

_Now to get Benedict to stop trying to convince me._

***

"Benedict Sherlock Watson, you get back here on this instant!"

Of course, as he had more or less expected, this simply made Benedict run off even faster. At least he wasn't hard to follow; never mind the small size of the apartment, but the wet footprints he left behind were quite enough for John to follow his tracks.

He cornered his son in Benedict's room, planting himself in the doorway to prevent any further escape attempts. "Now come here and let me dry you. You'll get cold."

"No." Benedict peeked at him over the edge of his bed, then dived out of sight again.

"Come on, Ben. Let's get you dry so we can get you dressed up."

"No!" The brat was having fun with this, John could tell. Because obviously the exhilarated laughter as he ran off from the shower hadn't been enough of a hint.

"You don't get to watch any videos until you have clothes on, young man."

Now, his darling two-year-old peeked out again. "Ben watches Hello Kitty!"

John sighed. He'd been hoping to update his blog before dinner, but hey, who was counting? It was just his laptop. "Okay, okay. You get to watch Hello Kitty on Daddy's laptop, but not until you're dry and dressed. Deal?"

Cue wet, naked little boy clambering quickly over his bed toward John. John had to step forward and catch him before he rolled right off the bed.

"Easy there, kid. Wouldn't want you to get hurt, now would we?" He laughed as he sat on the edge of Benedict's bed, quickly drying off the slightly protesting kid. "There, all clean and dry. Now let's put some clothes on you, hmm?"

"Ben's clothes."

"That's right, Ben. We'll find some clothes for you." He walked over to Benedict's closet, picking out an outfit that would hopefully not cause too much protesting. "Come here, let's get you dressed."

"Myself!" Oh, sure, of course he had to get dressed all by himself when he still hadn't even mastered the intricate art of matching his head and arms on the right holes on his shirt. At least they had time to spend on dressing practice.

After a good, long while Benedict was mainly clothed with everything on the right way around, rushing off the minute John let him go. Chuckling, John followed him to the living room, finding the child busy opening his laptop to look up his favourite videos.

"You really are a handful, aren't you, Benedict?" He went over to open the appropriate page, ruffling his son's hair. It was a wild mess of sandy curls, as always. "Should have known better than to give you such an unfortunate middle name."

"Name?" Ben looked up at him, blinking. "Ben Watson!" Of course, this was accompanied by the appropriate gesture of showing him two fingers, one for each full year.

"That's right. Benedict Sherlock Watson." Mycroft still gave him that odd look whenever the middle name came up, the same one he had given when John had first asked to have the name included on the official paperwork. He'd never questioned it, of course; Mycroft rarely questioned anything and when he did it was because he already knew the answer. Not that John himself was entirely clear on his motivations, aside from his usual joke that it was only appropriate that the one who ordered him around be called Sherlock.

"Daddy?" Ben's eyes returned to the screen. "Bring Clue."

"You could have gotten him when you were in your room." Nevertheless, John chuckled, walking back to Benedict's room. The much-loved teddy bear lay half hidden under the bed. Picking it up, he returned to the living room, handing the toy to Benedict. His son clutched onto the teddy without a glance at him, eyes glued to the computer screen.

Shaking his head in amusement, John crossed over to the kitchen, starting dinner preparations with one eye constantly on Ben. Sure, he was watching now, but he had a bad habit of disappearing the moment John took his eyes off for half a minute.

Well, if he couldn't actually write his blog entry yet, he could at least plan it in his head. It was much faster, he had found, to compose the text beforehand and then just type it up than to sit at his laptop for hours on end, waiting for the right turn of phrase to come up so he could get started.

As much as he enjoyed his investigations and the occasional spurts of action, he had to say he didn't mind days like this, either. They were quite nice, actually, the quiet, peaceful moments at the point when a case was wrapped up and he wasn't anxious for the next one yet, when Ben was acting no more difficult than any other two-year-old, when nothing was causing him too much pain and dinner was coming up nicely.

Ben was singing along to the theme music of his show, Clue held tightly in his little arms. At the appropriate points he slapped the skull he'd settled next to himself, an appropriately morbid little drum for a child with such a peculiar life. Of course, the skull usually got to be a mountain for the toy cars to cross, or a seat for Clue the Teddy, and on one memorable occasion it had born the honour of providing Benedict's stuffed bunny with a house. Mrs. Hudson often said it was too morbid, but John could not bring himself to agree. It wasn't like there was anything unnatural or inherently harmful about it.

"Daddy!" The sudden call made him blink in surprise. "Daddy, give Ben food."

"It'll be ready in just a moment. Patience, Ben." Well, at least this particular curly-haired friend of skulls wasn't too averse to getting fed. It did make things easier, though it also brought about some still aching memories as he set the table for two, eyes caught on the lingering mark of an old acid spill on the surface.

Of course, he wouldn't have minded setting the table for three, but he had already accepted that would never happen. He couldn't imagine anyone taking Sherlock's place, not in 221B.

He just hoped Benedict wouldn't mind growing up without a mummy.

***

 _21st April_

_Benedict is learning to be more informative about what he wants. Or, at least, he is getting better at putting it into words._

_Of course, this is mainly a good thing. It is much easier to stop his complaints when he actually says what he wants, instead of letting me decode the message from a few petulant words that I obviously should be able to interpret instinctively. However, this also means that he now considers it his absolute right to have me run from the other end of the apartment just because he needs someone to pick up his book._

_I'll have to teach him that other people aren't around just to play his servants, or I'll soon have another Sherlock in my hands. God knows that if I never have to get across the city just to send a text message for a lazy sod, it'll still be too soon._

_Of course, I'd do it again in a heartbeat if it was Sherlock asking, but it's not like that's ever going to happen again._

***

"Don't run in the stairs," John said as Benedict rushed up. "You'll fall and hurt yourself."

"Not falling!" the boy protested, hurrying up ahead of him. John chuckled faintly and followed him, groceries in tow. "Come on, Daddy! I want food!"

"On my way, Ben, on my way." As though he was dallying on purpose. "I'm just as hungry as you are."

"Are not!" Benedict grinned at him from the top of the stairs. "I'm more hungry!"

"It's hungrier, Ben, not more hungry."

"Hungry-er." Ben giggled. "Daddy makes food!"

"Yeah, yeah, in a minute." John took the groceries to the kitchen as he made his way upstairs, patting Ben on the head as the boy rushed after him. "Go see that your room is clean, okay?"

"I'm hungry?" Benedict's voice was hopeful, obviously thinking it might get him out of the chore.

"So am I, and I'm going to make food now. You have plenty of time to pick up your toys." John chuckled. "Go clean your room, and we can have ice cream after dinner."

Benedict's eyes started to shine. "Okay!" He ran off into the little hallway that separated his room from the kitchen.

John shook his head with a smile as he started putting the groceries away. Benedict was a good kid, but at times he could get tricky. John could only wonder what kind of schemes he would get up to once he grew up.

He was startled by an urgent call from the hallway. "Daddy!" Benedict was looking at him from the doorway, eyes wide and face pale, Clue hugged tight to his chest. "Daddy, strange man sleeps in my bed!"

For a fleeting moment John wondered if someone had been reading too much Goldilocks to his son. Then, however, he walked to the door, picking him up. "What do you mean?" Knowing Benedict, it was likely a case of a plushie in the wrong place.

"Strange man. I don't know." One of Benedict's hands grasped onto his shirt, holding on tight, the other still holding onto his teddy. His eyes looked almost scared.

"Oh?" Now, John frowned, growing wary. There were no signs of a break-in, but Ben wouldn't freak out like this over a misplaced toy. Holding his son close, he walked toward Benedict's room, listening for any suspicious sounds.

At the doorway, he halted. There was indeed someone in Benedict's bed, curled up on top of the covers, appearing to be asleep. A tall, slender man, his skin pale where a slim hand lay on a navy blue pillow, dark curls messed up from turning in the bed.

"See, Daddy?" Benedict whispered, holding onto him tight. "Strange man."

"Strange is right," John murmured, "but I think I know this man." However impossible it was.

After three years, Sherlock Holmes was home again.


	3. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back, but things aren't quite as simple as they might seem at first. Certainly not when there is also Mycroft to convince and Benedict to think of. However, they'll make it work.

For a split second, John felt the temptation to step forward, to rouse his old friend, to hold him close and make sure nothing was wrong with him. A thousand memories surfaced at once, of a warm hand in his, of the sweet melody of a violin drifting through the apartment, of a deep voice shooting out a hundred conclusions at once, the details woven into an intricate little net of fact and logic that made his view of the world so inescapable. It was a whole different world, the one where he was on occasion allowed to glimpse reality through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. A whole different world that he had been aching to regain for three years now.

However, it only took a moment for another kind of memories to follow. Memories of a pale face, a wrist without a pulse. A dark body lying on the pavement, and how cold and hard the pavement had been underneath the slowly spreading puddle of blood. Memories of a little girl taking one glance at Sherlock and screaming in terror, as though Sherlock had been the one to hurt her.

As though someone who looked exactly like Sherlock had been the one to hurt her.

Benedict seemed about to say something, but John placed a fingertip on his mouth, silencing him. Shaking his head, he quietly padded out of the room, his son held tightly to his chest.

"Okay, Benedict," he said with a low tone once they had made it to living room. "Daddy's going to make sure it's safe. I want you to stay here with Skully and Clue and not come out until I call for you. Pretend you're hiding, and be very quiet, okay? It's important. Can you do that?"

Benedict nodded vigorously, little blue eyes wide. Seeing that he immediately hurried to his second favourite toy and then scurried to hide behind an armchair, John nodded in satisfaction. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could manage at such a short notice.

He did take the moment to fetch his gun from the safe he had kept it in ever since Benedict's arrival. If this was indeed another scheme by Moriarty's men, he needed every bit of security.

For all the criminals that he had met, for all the close calls in Afghanistan, he couldn't recall ever feeling quite as tense as he crept slowly through the hallway towards Benedict's room. This was different. This was his home, his son's bed, his friend's face on what should have by all rights been a man long dead.

As he returned, the one who couldn't be Sherlock lay exactly as before, apparently fast asleep. He was thinner than Sherlock had been as John last saw him, his hair a bit longer and messier, but other than that, every line, every feature was precisely the same.

If this was another scheme left behind by Moriarty, he would make it his ultimate mission to find the bastard's grave and desecrate it in every way imaginable.

"Good morning, Goldilocks." He surprised even himself with how even his voice was, how steady his hand as he pointed his gun precisely at the intruder's head. "Eaten my porridge yet?"

"Obscure references as a greeting, John? How incredibly dull." Only his lips moved, the tones and inflections exactly as John recalled them, though still somewhat rough from the fleeting sleep. "I have not touched a thing, I assure you. Well, except for the bed, obviously."

"Obviously." John did not let his hands waver even as the man sat up, opening the very familiar grey eyes. He could not afford to trust so easily, not when Benedict's safety might be on the line as well. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? Is it not obvious? I returned to London and needed a place to stay. Where else was I supposed to go?"

"You're dead." John shook his head, then corrected himself, "Sherlock is dead." Because surely, surely, this man could not be Sherlock.

"Obviously not, as I am right here before you." The man did not seem shaken at the gun pointed at his face, even though he surely knew John would never miss from this distance. "It is a long story that will likely have you hating me before it is over, but suffice it to say that the circumstances required me to be dead."

"Ah, yes. Moriarty's deal. We found out about it." Don't give up any details Moriarty's men could not know about. "Doesn't exactly explain why you would be alive now."

"You should know by now that I am nothing if not constantly prepared, John. I could not possibly allow myself to die while there remained the very real possibility that Moriarty had arranged for you to be disposed of after my fall."

"You faked your death?"

"That is what I am essentially saying, yes." The grey eyes met his own easily. "You do well not to trust me. I would not trust myself in this situation."

"So, what? I'm to keep the gun pointed at you indefinitely?"

"Don't be an idiot, John." So very familiar. "Ask me something. Something only I would know. Something neither Mycroft nor Moriarty could have found out through bugs or spies or other such underhanded means."

That did not leave him with much to work on, though, not when the networks of those two combined covered damn nigh the entire London. However, the answer came to him almost instantly. "We were in Baskerville." Well outside the scope of the best of Mycroft's cameras. "On the moors, I thought I caught some communication. What was it?"

This earned him a gaze filled with something akin to approval. "Morse code, or so you insisted." Perfectly calm, without any hesitation. "The letters were U.M.Q.R.A. as I recall."

That was it. He had never told that to anyone else, had never mentioned it in his blog, not even to his friends, embarrassed as he had been. The only one who could be aware of the matter was Sherlock. The real Sherlock.

"You're alive." He almost felt like fainting right then and there. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, you're alive."

"Yes. Yes, it would appear that I am."

John barely had the presence of mind to set his gun aside before he flung himself at Sherlock. He very nearly couldn't believe his senses as he found his arms closing around warm, solid flesh and bone. "You did it," he managed to sob, nearly choking at the heavy weight in his throat. "You made a miracle, Sherlock, just as I asked."

Sherlock seemed frozen for a moment before patting his back in a somewhat awkward fashion. "It is not a miracle, John. Just a little magic trick."

"It was never a trick." No, he had not forgotten those awful words. "You are just that brilliant."

"My good John, always believing in me." Sherlock sighed. "I suppose I should apologise. For breaking in, I mean."

"Yes, you should." John pulled away and glared at him. "However, the real crime is letting me think you were dead for three years, not coming back."

"It was necessary at the time."

"For three years? Really? All that was necessary, even with Moriarty dead?"

"At first it was. And believe me, it pained me to leave you behind." Sherlock looked serious. "But then you got better. I do read your blog, you know. And then you got a new flatmate and I figured you were fine without me, so I concentrated on hunting down the rest of Moriarty's men."

"New flatmate?" John blinked. "No, I didn't. Hell, it took me two years to kick your things out of the apartment. There's no way I'd let someone else in."

"Please, John, I'm not an idiot." Sherlock shook his head. "Your blog. You've been living with this Benedict ever since you moved in." There was a tone of almost bitterness in his voice. "Not that anyone can blame you, of course. It must be great to have someone so affectionate with you. He gets along with Mycroft, too? How absolutely splendid."

John might have laughed then, except he was too stunned to do so. Was Sherlock truly that clueless? "If you'd actually read my blog, you'd have seen all the times I declared I miss you," he pointed out wryly. "You'd also have realised that Ben could never take your place." Only Sherlock could read his mentions about playing with skulls and arguing about bedtime and think it was a replacement for him.

"Don't lie to me, John. You even solve crimes with him." Now he sounded almost betrayed.

"In a manner of speaking." John got up, walking to the door. He was convinced there was no danger now, after all. "Ben! Ben, come on out. It's safe here."

A moment later he heard the familiar sound of little feet running along. Even without looking he knew that Sherlock's eyes widened as they saw Benedict come into the hallway. The boy hurried up to the doorway, then halted, staring at Sherlock with his arms tightly around Clue. "Are you a bad man?"

"Some would say so." At least Sherlock recovered fast. "I'm not sure if John agrees with that."

"Benedict, this is Sherlock. He is Mycroft's brother and my friend. And Sherlock, meet Benedict Watson, my son." He set his hand on top of Ben's messy curls. "The current occupant of this room, as you might note from the toys, and my only flatmate for the last two and a half years, just so you know."

Ben nodded vigorously. "I'm three," he added, helpfully showing the appropriate number of fingers.

"Your son." Sherlock sounded shocked for once. "You have a child."

"Indeed." John took his gun from where he'd set it. Better get it back out of sight. "And much though I'd like to interrogate you right now, he has informed me he is hungry. Therefore you have the time I need to make dinner to think up your excuses."

"So what about after that?" He didn't ask what he needed the excuses for. He really was learning.

"After I've made dinner, we eat." Of course. "And once I've put Ben to bed, you can explain why you thought it would be a good idea to disappear on me for three years. I've been waiting, Sherlock, I need a very good explanation."

"Sherlock." Ben was still staring at him. "That's my name! Isn't it, Daddy?"

"Yes, Benedict. That's your middle name." John patted Ben's head. "Why don't you show Sherlock your room while I make food for us all?" He shot Sherlock a look that made it clear he'd better play along. At least it hopefully did. John had no idea whether Sherlock could still read him that well.

"Okay!" apparently Ben had no longer any apprehensions now that John had deemed Sherlock safe. He ran right to Sherlock, already chattering on.

Right. Food. Food for Ben and Sherlock.

Sherlock was home.

***

"I'm angry."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He seemed so familiar, sitting in his usual seat as though nothing had ever happened. If it hadn't been for the overgrown hair, John might have almost thought it was his imagination again, another dream brought about by a hopeful mind.

"I've never been this angry before. Not at you, not at anyone. And you know why? Because I've never been so hurt before in my life." His voice was rough, struggling against tears. "You broke me, Sherlock. You worked your way into my life and then you just left."

"You survived, though." Sherlock's voice was quiet as well, his eyes somewhere far away. "I knew you would, because you are stronger than me."

"No, I'm not." He swallowed. "I was so alone, Sherlock. I was barely even alive. Mycroft had to come and shake me back to life. Mycroft, Sherlock! Your brother had to intervene because he saw that I was dying after you left me!"

"But you didn't die." Sherlock shook his head. "I am weak, John, and selfish. Do you know why I jumped?"

"Yeah." He couldn't manage anything more than a whisper. "Moriarty was going to kill us. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and me. Our lives for yours."

"Exactly." Sherlock turned his eyes to John at last. "I knew that you could survive my death, but I could not survive yours."

To that John could not say anything. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. "You hurt so many people," he murmured. "Mycroft blamed himself. Even now, three years later, he was visibly depressed around that day."

"Mycroft never looks depressed. He'd never let himself show such weakness." Well, at least he wasn't trying to argue that his brother could not be touched by his passing.

"Well, forgive me if I'll rather take the word of his lover than that of someone who hasn't seen him in three years."

"What?" For once, Sherlock looked startled. John couldn't help but feel a kind of perverse satisfaction at that.

"You heard me." John smirked. "What, did you think Benedict was the only thing you had missed?"

"Of course not, but I also didn't think Mycroft had been possessed."

"Very funny." John rolled his eyes. "You can tell him that tomorrow, I'm sure he'll laugh too."

"And what makes you think I will go anywhere near him?"

"He will be coming here to give me a new case. So, unless you were thinking of leaving tonight, you will meet him."

"So you aren't kicking me out?"

John sighed. "I'm angry at you for disappearing, Sherlock. It would be quite counterproductive for me to get rid of you. I just need to know if you are going to leave me again."

"You want me to stay?"

It took him a moment to register Sherlock's words as a question. Fortunately, he didn't have to think about his answer for long. "Yes. Yes. Bloody Hell, Sherlock, if you disappear on me again, I swear I will never forgive you." Because of course he would forgive him for this time, eventually. He would have to, because Sherlock had come back and nothing could make him let go again.

"I didn't think you needed me."

"Yeah, well, that's because you're a right wanker who will never quite understand the way us normal people work with our stupid feelings and attachments." John shook his head. "I've needed you every damn day during the last three years. I can't tell you everything will be the same as it was, because both of us have changed and so have the people around us, but I am willing to make adjustments to keep you around from now on."

"Except your life doesn't have room for me. You have your son now."

"Yes. He is the one thing I will not let go. However, aside from the fact that I won't let you take over his room, I do not see how that should mean I can't have you back."

"You have no time for me when you have to attend to a child."

"I'll be the first one to admit that you can be quite high maintenance," John replied wryly. "However, I think you overestimate the amount of devoted attention he needs. For the most part Benedict goes around with me on investigations, or stays with someone else while I do something dangerous. You'd be surprised at how much less suspicious people are of a guy with a child. Besides, I'm not sure if you have noticed, but actually quite a few people manage to fit both a child and an adult companion in their lives. It's called having a family, not sure if you've heard of it."

"I'm not unfamiliar with the concept, but most adults in such arrangements do so because they are in a romantic relationship." Sherlock looked at him as though he was an idiot for not being aware of this. It was almost comforting, being so underrated again.

"Even after all these years there are still people who are convinced we were a couple, I've more or less given up on dating, and I think we've established that it's impossible for me to carry on romantic attachments while you are around. I think I can handle living in a sexless relationship if it means having my best friend in my life again."

"John Watson given up dating? Next you will tell me the sun will rise from the west tomorrow."

"Oh, I wouldn't. It would require me to explain you the mechanics of sunrise first, what with all those pesky planetary movements being involved." John rolled his eyes. "You want to know why? Because every time I tried, you were there. Yes, even with you supposedly dead, you ruined my dates. First it took me ages to stop mourning and then drowning myself in my work, and after that every time I tried to get to know a woman I'd just think how she isn't as interesting as you, or how she'd think my job is insane, or even found myself cataloguing the flaws you would find in her. You've ruined me for women and I'm not even gay."

"It is hardly my fault if your taste in women runs on the dull side."

"I was perfectly happy with my taste in women before you got involved in my life." John shook his head. "Either way, the fact remains that my life cannot fit both Sherlock Holmes and a girlfriend. And I know damn well which one I prefer."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then, somewhat uncomfortably, he said, "I suppose I should apologise."

"Please don't. Whenever you do that, I need to take a moment to remind myself you're not some impostor." John sighed. "I want you to stay, Sherlock. I want our lives to be the same they were, except for the fact that Ben is here. If you think you can manage that, if you think you can share our lives, we'll figure things out somehow. But if you're going to leave again, if you can't make the effort to fit us into your exciting little life, or if you've just decided you don't need me anymore… I'd rather hear about it right now, before I let my hopes build up."

"I faked my death for three years, John. Do you think I would do that for someone I then cast aside?"

"I don't know. I never seem to know anything with you. Would you?"

Sherlock looked him in the eye, for a moment apparently searching for words. Finally, he just shook his head. "I'll sleep on the couch until we figure something out."

John's lips twitched. "You'll ruin your back."

"I've had much worse." And then something was back again, some little spark in his eyes, some little bit of the old Sherlock. "I do believe it's time for you to head to bed, John. We have a new case to attend to tomorrow."

Somehow, those words brought a full smile to his face. "And a big brother to startle, I presume."

"What do you think, would Benedict be scared if I pretended to be a ghost?"

"Considering his love for Skully, you could probably convince him to play along with your little scheme."

As Sherlock returned his smile, John slowly started to feel like this might actually all work out in the end.

***

A scream shook John from his sleep.

At first he thought it might have been traces of a dream, a lingering nightmare he could not quite recall, but the sound was almost immediately followed by the twin shouts of, "Daddy!" and "John!" The first was familiar, his son's voice clear to him even half asleep. The second, though, gave him pause as he fought to regain his thoughts from the fog of sleep.

Sherlock. That was Sherlock's voice.

John was on his feet before he could even fully recall what had happened the night before. The memories caught up with him as he rushed downstairs, dreading what he might find there.

As it happened, the sight he was met with was somewhat alarming but on closer thought not entirely unexpected. A rather startled Benedict and somewhat helpless-looking Sherlock were trying to attend to Mrs. Hudson, who appeared to have lost her consciousness.

"I didn't do anything," Sherlock insisted even as John quite easily removed her from his arms, carrying over to the couch where a pillow and a blanket bore witness to Sherlock's previous night. "I was trying to make breakfast, she walked in, screamed and fainted."

"Well, one can hardly blame her. She must have thought she was seeing a ghost." He should have foreseen this. Mrs. Hudson had taken to the habit of coming to 221B early in the mornings, spending some time with Benedict while allowing John to catch some more sleep. She insisted on doing so despite his protests as she awoke early anyway, declaring Benedict much better company than "those awful morning programs" on telly and the radio. Most of the time it was a most blessed arrangement; however, today it seemed to have brought her quite a fright.

"'Lock makes waffles." Benedict gave him a serious gaze at these grave news.

"Waffles?" John didn't look at Sherlock, his attention still on his poor unconscious landlady, but he did raise his eyebrows in question. "I was not aware he is quite capable of such a thing."

"Your son insisted," Sherlock replied, shrugging. "You needed more sleep."

"You've never worried too much about my sleep before." Thankfully it didn't look like Mrs. Hudson had hurt herself as she fainted. She'd just need a bit of rest and be up and about in no time.

"I've never left you for three years before."

John paused, turning to look at Sherlock. "You're trying to make it up to me."

"I have been made to believe it is the regular etiquette in such cases, yes."

John sighed, standing up. "And you couldn't find a way to do it that doesn't make me wonder whether you're an impostor after all?"

Sherlock huffed, and the sulking sound was so utterly familiar, John found his lips twitching despite himself. "Well, you usually complain because I never do anything for you."

"Yes. Yes, I have complained about it in the past. However, I have also complained a number of other things." He sighed, walking over to the kitchen to take a look at the situation. "I realise you're trying to make it up to me, but honestly, Sherlock. An extra hour of sleep in the morning and a bunch of waffles won't exactly make up for years of mourning."

"I see." Sherlock seemed to be almost fidgeting, now. It was amusing in a rather twisted way.

The waffle mix appeared to be ready, leaving him with the duty of simply pouring some into the pan. "So. If you're so desperate to gain my approval, I guess you are intending to stay."

"You said I could."

"Yes, I did, and I meant it. However, if you are planning to get back into my life, there are conditions."

"Conditions. Right. What conditions?" It was almost pathetic, sounding Sherlock so desperate for, well, anything.

John shook his head, not looking at Sherlock though he was somewhat curious as to what kind of an expression accompanied such a voice. He had to concentrate on the waffles, now. Waffles would make everything better, or at least they would make Benedict happier. "I have three rules."

"And they are?" No questions, no protests, no sarcastic comments. Sherlock actually seemed to be sincere.

"One, you will do nothing in this house that could put Benedict in danger. I realise this leaves out quite a few of your experiments, but you'll just have to find somewhere else to do them. I will keep my son safe, even if it is from you."

"Right."

"Two, you will not leave without telling me. I don't care if you're just leaving the town for a day or two, you do have time to send me a text or something. I'm not going to spend a single moment wondering when I'll see you again or whether I will."

"And the third?" Strange. He would have expected Sherlock to find some protest by now, considering how free he liked to be in his movements.

"You get the groceries sometimes." Okay, first waffle done. He set it aside on a plate and poured more of the mix into the pan. "With Benedict here, it seems we're always out of milk."

There was no response for a moment. As he glanced toward Sherlock, he found his friend blinking at him in something akin to surprise. "That's all?"

"I believe I said three, yes." He glanced down where a little hand was tugging at his pyjama bottoms. "Patience, Benedict. I'll make another one for you so you can have two at once."

"And if I do those things, you'll forgive me?"

John paused. He'd never heard Sherlock sound so honestly unsure before. "If you break the rules, I will be very, very angry." Because unless Sherlock somehow got Benedict seriously hurt, he wouldn't even have the heart to tell him to go away.

"But you'll forgive me?"

"Oh, Sherlock." As always, so very blind to the things that mattered. So very blind to how much John was under his spell. "You were forgiven the moment I had you back."

***

Of course, once she recovered and got reassurance from John that no, she was not seeing things, Mrs. Hudson was less than pleased with Sherlock. She told him off for giving her such a fright, and then for letting them all think he was dead, and honestly he hadn't even been home for a day and already the kitchen was such a mess. Benedict seemed quite amused at the show, and Sherlock was patient and didn't start protesting, and by the end they all had waffles and tea and everything seemed just slightly surreal.

After her initial annoyance, Mrs. Hudson didn't seem very frazzled about Sherlock's return. Of course he could fake his death, he was so very brilliant, and if he said he had a good reason to do so who was she to question him. No, she was now much more concerned about where he would sleep, surely he could not keep sleeping on the couch, not if he still wanted to keep his back all in one piece. John did his best to ignore the meaningful looks she kept giving him.

Thanks to Sherlock's dislike of being nagged and Benedict giving in to his tummy's demands, they finally managed to steer the conversation from sleeping arrangements to the much more pressing and safer topic of breakfast. John's stomach agreed rather enthusiastically with the change of topic. Mrs. Hudson decided to busy herself with fussing over Sherlock in such a familiar way, it was like three years had never passed. John did his best not to show his amusement as he realised the way she got on his case about eating a proper breakfast was very similar to the tones she used on Benedict when he was being picky.

Benedict, for his part, seemed to be taking things quite in a stride. Now that he saw the strange man calmly eating waffles, with neither his father nor Mrs. Hudson having any trouble with him even after a full night's sleep, he appeared to have decided there was no reason for him to be shy. Having finished his own waffles, the boy hurried over to Sherlock, tugging at his sleeve to get his attention.

"Hey, 'Lock. Wanna play with me and Skully?"

Sherlock seemed somewhat surprised by this request. Glancing at John and finding him nodding, he then looked back at Benedict. "Why, certainly. He is an old friend of mine, after all."

The adults around the Watson family all formed very quick opinions on Skully and Benedict's affection for it. Quite a few thought it was unhealthy at best, while others pretended to ignore the fact that most of John's photos of his son involved a human skull being treated like a common toy. Harry in particular had perfected the art of looking right through Ben's little friend. Mrs. Hudson and Greg tended to regard the whole thing with affectionate amusement, while Mycroft was often inspired to tell about Sherlock's equally peculiar interests as a child. However, aside from himself, John had yet to meet anyone who would have decided the best approach was to treat Skully as a particularly unhuggable form of a teddy bear.

He hadn't realised what a big deal it could be until he saw Benedict's beaming smile.

Though Sherlock was not particularly well known for his talents in child care, he seemed quite happy to join Benedict in playing with his own old teddy and skull. Of course, this soon devolved into an exercise of Sherlock finding signs of how Benedict utilised the skull in his games and recounting the most glorious past adventures of Clue the Bear.

"Wow." Benedict stared at Sherlock, most of what he said flying well over the little head yet the remnants enough to sufficiently awe him. "You're almost like Daddy!"

"Really?" Without even looking over to where the two had taken over the couch, John heard quite clearly the raised eyebrows in Sherlock's voice. "And how am I similar to dear John?"

"Yup." Benedict sounded as confident as only a three-year-old could. "Daddy's all smart and talks a lot about stuff. And he's always right."

"Oh, I'm sure John is very smart indeed." Funnily enough, Sherlock didn't even sound entirely like he was joking.

"He's the most smart Daddy ever." John glanced up from his laptop, now, finding Benedict grinning at him. He also met Sherlock's eyes, looking at him as easily as though they'd been apart for only three days instead of years.

"Of course I am." He chuckled. "Do you two think you could keep each other entertained in Ben's room for a moment? I'm hoping to finish my latest write-up before Mycroft arrives." He'd been planning to do his writing the night before after Benedict's bedtime, but their surprise guest had changed those plans quite rapidly.

He half expected some form of protest, perhaps Sherlock announcing that he was bored with playing babysitter. To his surprise there was none. Benedict grabbed Clue and Sherlock the skull, leaving their spot on the couch and heading toward Benedict's room.

He should have been more concerned with the two scheming somewhere out of his line of sight, but somewhat to his surprise he could find no reason to. Not for a second did he entertain the possibility that this was not Sherlock after all; the very idea seemed as absurd as though somebody had told him his left hand had been switched with an impostor. Of course this was Sherlock, and of course he couldn't get up to anything worrisome with Benedict; certainly nothing more so than a three-year-old could think up on his own.

John was almost finished with his blog entry as his attention was caught by the sudden sound of a knock. Looking up, he found Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, John," Mycroft said with one of his more genuine tones. "Do excuse me, Mrs. Hudson let me in and told me to just come up." He gave a single gaze to the living room and John, then frowned. "Should I perhaps worry? I was expecting to see your latest case up online last night, yet it never showed up, and now someone has apaprently spent some downtime on your couch."

"Ah, no reason to worry." Right. The part he hadn't even thought about yet. How to explain to Mycroft that they had all been grievously wrong? "Something surprising just came up."

"And what would this surprising thing be?" Mycroft walked further into the living room, then leant on his umbrella. "Certainly it must be worrisome if it throws off our favourite blogger."

John was silent for a moment, trying to find a way to start. However, he never got the chance. Sherlock, with his usual sense of timing, chose this exact moment to walk into the kitchen with Benedict after him, eyes on a toycar he was turning in his hands. "John, where is the screwdriver? I do believe the tires need some tightening."

Mycroft didn't say anything. All he could get out was a somewhat strangled sound, his eyes wide. Then he staggered back a few steps before sitting down in the free armchair, the heavy fall accentuated with the tip of his umbrella hitting the floor. "I… what?"

"Ah, Mycroft! John did say you were coming." Sherlock gave him a grin that might have appeared almost genuine if John hadn't known him better.

"Who is this?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand.

"For what I can tell? Sherlock." John closed his laptop and set it aside. This needed all his attention, now. "He showed up last night in Benedict's bed and announced that he never died after all."

"This is Mycroft, John. He's going to need a DNA test at the very least."

"You can be certain of that." Mycroft's tone was one of disbelief, coloured by a somewhat surprising amount of iciness. "Because if this is some kind of a joke…"

"No joke, Mycroft. I just got rid of the last certain threat to John's life in Moriarty's network and figured I'd swing by to let him know." Sherlock glanced at John. "I wasn't planning on staying, but it turned out things were not as I expected."

"I see." Mycroft still sounded cold. A defence mechanism, John supposed. He didn't want to invest any emotions before he was certain it wouldn't blow up in his face. Typical Holmes behaviour. Not that he supposed he could blame the man at this point. Which probably made John himself foolish, but it wasn't like he could help it.

"You don't like my being here." It wasn't a question. "Not until you're sure."

"If you are Sherlock, you're not going to blame me for that." Mycroft shook his head. "He would not allow anyone to put John in danger in such a manner."

"Of course not." Sherlock paused, just for a second, and John could almost literally see his mind working through everything. "An Y-chromosome comparison should take two or three days at most, and should be adequate unless you are concerned I'm some bastard of father's. I'm quite willing to spend that amount of time under close surveillance in a secluded location."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "That alone is almost enough to convince me you are not Sherlock."

"John's safety, Mycroft. His and his son's. I'm glad you're taking it seriously, but so am I."

"Wait." John frowned. "You're talking about going away?"

"Just for a couple of days, John." Mycroft looked at him. "I'm sure you are convinced of his identity, but you'll have to forgive me if I don't take it as absolute proof. And as long as it has not been proven, I will continue to be careful."

"As you should." Sherlock nodded. "A couple of days, John. I'll come back after that."

"Forget it." John replied so fast, it took him a moment to realise he had been the one to speak. "I just know that if I let you out of my grasp right now, this'll all turn out to have been some kind of a sadistic dream. Thank you for your concern, Mycroft, but I will take that risk."

"For Benedict, too?" Mycroft's question made him freeze. "If you trust him enough to put your own life at risk, fine, but can you really risk Benedict's? Over strange sentiment about which you have no proof?"

"He knew something only Sherlock could know." Which suddenly sounded hollow even in his own ears.

"There's this tricky thing about knowledge, John. It can be transferred, corrupted, stolen. Very rarely is it actual proof of anything." Mycroft looked over to where Benedict had followed the conversation in silence, apparently startled by their cold tones. "Ah, Benedict. How would you feel about having a sleepover for a couple of days?"

"What's that?"

"It means you would go to stay over at Mycroft's place for a couple of days." Sherlock's eyes darted between Mycroft and John. "Because we all know that's how this is going to go down."

A part of John wanted to point out that he should have been consulted about his son's comings and goings. Another part reminded him that he had already made up his mind. He would not leave Sherlock, not again, yet with all his conviction he could not in good conscience continue to put Benedict at risk. One night he supposed was permissible, in his initial shock and confusion, but now it was daytime and Mycroft was very good at reminding him of reality.

As a friend, as a man, he was convinced beyond any shadow of doubt that the man standing in front of him was Sherlock, knew with all his heart that he could trust him with his life. As a father, he could not afford to be quite so trusting.

"Daddy?" Benedict was looking at him with huge eyes. "May I?"

"If you want to." John gave him a smile that he hoped looked genuine enough. "We can go and pack your things right away."

"Yay!" Benedict turned around and ran off to his room, blissfully unaware of the tension between the adults. John, however, was all too aware of it even as he stood up.

"Are you two going to be all right if I go?"

"Oh, perfectly so." Mycroft's eyes were on Sherlock again, cold and inquisitive. "My apologies, John, but there are things I prefer not to risk."

"You hardly need to apologise for thinking of Benedict's safety." Which he probably should have been more concerned about to begin with.

"Nor you for wanting your dreams to be true." How nice to know he was transparent. But then, it was hard to be anything but, in front of a Holmes.

"Still." John paused. "I'll go and get Benedict's things." He knew better than to ask about the mission. He would have had to be an idiot not to realise this took absolute priority right now.

"You do that." His eyes were still locked on the silent Sherlock.

John fled the room, trying not to think.

***

They were not perhaps the longest days in John's life — that honour would forever belong to the time he had spent in Afghanistan, fighting for his life in a military hospital — but they were certainly among the strangest he had ever lived through. The apartment seemed very empty and quiet with Benedict staying with his honorary uncles, yet at the same time he was constantly startled by Sherlock's presence.

John felt like he was the one closer to ghost sometimes, lingering in the doorways and staring, yearning, hardly believing that this man was back to him. Sometimes he caught Sherlock looking back, his gaze deep and knowing as always, and on those moments he had absolutely no doubt about the outcome of the tests.

This was Sherlock. Sherlock was home.

They talked a lot, when John wasn't too busy just staring and trying to believe. John happily sat until late at night listening to the adventures Sherlock had gone through during their years apart, only sometimes caught by the sting of wishing he could have been there. John himself recounted the lost years on his end, telling about Benedict and his cases and what had become of their old acquaintances. Sherlock seemed almost impressed with his case record, though then Sherlock always affected such an air when someone showed the slightest modicum of intelligence.

As he spoke he couldn't help wondering how different things could have been, how soon Sherlock would have solved this matter or that, where and when his help might still have been needed. Sherlock was thinking among the same lines, he knew that; he didn't even need the half-started sentences and thoughtful looks to tell that. Whatever conclusions Sherlock might have come to, though, he chose not to share them. It might have been for the best. John didn't exactly need help to have negative thoughts right now.

Despite the nightmares that attacked in the middle of the night, though, the nightmares where this was all a dream or a hoax and where the pain of not having Sherlock was enough to startle him awake he was certain that this was Sherlock. He knew it, not in the manner that he put clues and facts together to know the outcome of the case but like he knew himself. If he closed his eyes, he could still tell where his hands were and how to bring them together. He saw hardly any reason why he could not be similarly aware of Sherlock's presence.

He did not say much when Mycroft returned, Mycroft bearing a happy but homesick toddler and very official-looking papers and the strangest expression of relief and joy John had ever seen. All he did was pick up his son for reunion hugs and kisses, glancing toward where the two brothers now met properly at last, and thought of how very, very fortunate he was.

Tonight, for the first time in over three years, he would not fear nightmares.

***

 _4th September_

_I sometimes wonder if I should be happy or suspicious about the way Sherlock and Benedict get along._

_Of course, I could make plenty of jokes about how Sherlock has found someone who is on his own level, except it's really not very amusing at all when they reflect each other's behaviour. I know many people have called Sherlock a spoiled brat and not just myself, but somehow it has never been quite as clear as when I have to find ways to convince both a toddler and a grown man to eat their vegetables._

_I'm still not sure what to be more surprised about, the ease with which Ben has accepted Sherlock into our lives or Sherlock's apparent ability to slide right back to our old routine, child or not. I'd never imagined Sherlock as the type to get along with children, and he's not, not really. However, he seems to have infinitely more patience for the things Ben doesn't know or understand than he does when adults fail to meet his expectations. I know I should not be so impressed that he has grasped the basic difference between a toddler and a grown adult, but with Sherlock, I know better than to take anything for granted._

_I suppose he just loves an audience, in the end. He always seemed to love showing off to me with his deductions, and in Benedict he has a forever interested audience. Moreover, unlike most adults, Benedict doesn't mind being taught things. I can hardly remember ever seeing something as adorable as the startled expression on Sherlock's face when I first heard Benedict calling him "super smart". Right after that, of course, they decided they absolutely needed to experiment on the relative virtues of chocolate versus banana as cereal flavours. I'm not sure I've ever had a messier kitchen or a more adorable sight than my two practical scientists both passed out on the couch with cocoa-smeared faces._

_They're damn lucky I love them both._

***

"The murderer escaped through here." John narrowed his eyes as he examined the marks on the wall under the window. It was hard to see on the dirty floor of the abandoned room, but the police lights allowed him to see the slight scuff marks from where someone had scraped the wall with their foot.

Sherlock turned at John's words, walking closer to look over his shoulder. "Indeed. The marks appear quite clear." He leant closer to take a look at the window sill. "The dust has been recently disturbed, too. Someone clearly climbed up through here."

"But to what possible purpose?" Greg eyed them dubiously. "It's not like there was anyone else here, and they'd already walked in through the front door with the victim. What were they afraid of, that the neighbours would talk if they left alone? In these parts? Fat chance. Certainly not worth the risk of climbing out a third story window."

"Many things are worth the risk when you leave behind a mutilated body." John opened the window and leant out to take a look. They were high up, with only the pavement of the little alley down below. Nobody would have dropped down from here, but he could see a narrow ledge lower down that might have been used to get away.

"Not if it ends with you as another body." Greg sounded somewhat frustrated. "This guy is insane, no doubt about that, but he's not stupid. There's a backdoor, you know; it wasn't locked when we arrived. Hanging out of a window would attract a lot more attention."

"So he had a reason not to use a door." Sherlock smirked. "This is brilliant. At the previous scenes, the murderer never took this kind of risks. Which suggest that something happened here that forced him to change his habits."

"Interrupted, perhaps?" John drew back from the window, glancing toward the body. "We can see the ritualistic manner in the mutilation here, but it's not complete compared with the previous crimes. Either the killer was in a hurry or didn't get the chance to finish."

"Or quite possibly both," Sherlock added with an almost idle tone. "Some of the cuts aren't quite precise, and though the pattern is similar to the others I'm convinced that this is unfinished. What if he knew his little game would be interrupted and was careless because of that?"

"That would suggest someone came here, though. We haven't seen any signs of a third person." Greg shook his head. "Besides, this guy has killed four people. Wouldn't he just silence a witness?"

"Perhaps it's someone he doesn't want to kill. Perhaps his method of subduing the victims wouldn't work on just anyone. Or perhaps he's following a pattern to these murders that we're yet to decipher." There was an excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes.

"It can't be an accomplice or he wouldn't have needed to stop," John remarked. "Anyway, like Greg said, nothing suggests that there was a third person in here, yet the murderer left his work unfinished and escaped through the window."

"The victims are still alive as he cuts them, though. Perhaps the victim did something that might have attracted attention and he needed to silence her. Furthermore, to reach the backdoor, he'd have to go downstairs first."

"So someone arrives at the house, someone who is not an accomplice but whom he didn't want to harm at this time at least, for whatever reason. He finishes the victim to avoid detection, then flees through the window." John frowned. "But if nobody was coming upstairs in the first place, why didn't he just stay here and hide? He took quite the risk climbing out like that, and it's not like he couldn't have waited until someone was in the stairs before fleeing. Those were quite noisy when we were coming up."

"Ah, but the ritual was unfinished. He might have well felt a compulsion to leave the scene to escape the shame. There's definitely a psychological element to these murders. We'll need to pin that down if we want to have any chance at catching the guy."

"Indeed." John glanced around, then frowned. "I don't think we're going to find much else here."

"Certainly not in this room, no." Sherlock shook his head. "I'm going to take a look at the rest of the building. You go save Mrs. Hudson from Benedict; it's getting to be late. Once he's in bed, take another look at the files on the previous victims. I know there's more to this case than just a maniac with a sharp knife."

"Definitely." It wasn't just an assignment to get him out of the way, as it might have been years ago. Sherlock was asking this because he thought John would indeed find something important. "Greg, you make sure he doesn't go running after murderers on his own."

"Will do." Greg nodded. "Tell Ben I said hi."

"Of course." John nodded his goodbye and hurried off the scene. He had a toddler to put to bed and a crime to solve.

No, not he. They.

Somehow, that made it all better.

***

"Come on, time to wash your hands, Benedict." John leaned against the door frame. "Dinner's almost ready."

"Uh huh." The almost four-year-old didn't even look his way.

"I meant it, Benedict. Sherlock will be home soon, too."

"I'm busy." He certainly looked like it, arranging his toys on the floor. Not that it was an excuse not to get ready for dinner.

"And what are you busy with?" John walked into the room, crouching down to take a look. "Oh, you're playing house?"

"Yup." Benedict looked up from where he was tucking in a stuffed puppy, with Clue and a very fluffy panda sitting around a couple of plastic plates. "Baby's going to bed."

"I see." John smiled. "So, is Clue the daddy and the panda the mommy?" Because he had been informed often enough, in no uncertain terms, that Clue was most definitely a boy.

"No. There's no mummy." Benedict tutted and patted the puppy's head, apparently satisfied with its current state.

"Right. So the baby has two daddies, then?" He was slightly amused that Benedict had chosen to assign genders to his stuffed toys in such a manner.

"No, silly." Benedict frowned at him as though he'd made some grave offence. "Clue is Daddy, like you. And Police Panda is Papa, like Sherlock."

"Oh, right." John nodded, then paused. "So Sherlock is Papa, now?" He had to wonder which member of their little extended family had put such an idea into Benedict's head, since he was sure Sherlock himself wouldn't have made a claim to the name.

"Yup! Cause you're Daddy and you like Sherlock and Sherlock likes you. But only ladies are mommies, and Sherlock isn't a lady. So, Sherlock is Papa!"

"I see." For some reason, John found himself smiling. "So does that mean that we're bears and you're a puppy?"

Of course, Benedict answered this with a grin and a loud bark.

"Oh, honestly. I go out for the day and the place turns into a zoo?" Sherlock's chuckle from the doorway drew John's attention.

Benedict barked once more before getting up to his feet and running over to hug Sherlock's legs. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "You're my Papa, aren't you?"

For a second, something akin to surprise flashed over Sherlock's face, followed by a questioning gaze at John. The next moment, however, it was gone, and instead he bent down to pick up the child. "Why do you ask?"

"Because apparently liking me means you're either Papa or Mummy and you don't meet the qualifications of the latter," John replied in Benedict's stead, standing up. "I have to say I'm quite curious as well."

Sherlock feigned a thoughtful look, then made a face. "No. I would never be your Papa."

"Why not?" Poor Benedict looked crestfallen. Quite unexpectedly, John felt his chest tightening as well.

"Papa is a stuffy word. It's the kind of word Mycroft would use. I think Pa will be quite enough, hmm?"

"Yup!" There was a smile on Benedict's face again. "Are we gonna have dinner now?"

"Not until you've washed your hands, young man. You know what John thinks of such things." And, without listening to a word of protest, Sherlock quite simply carried Benedict out of the room.

John stood for a moment, looking after them, then glanced back at Benedict's toys. The puppy dog looked quite safe under its blanket, guarded by a well-loved brown teddy and a much sleeker panda of black and white. It was quite the mismatched bunch, but they seemed happy enough together.

Then he chuckled, shook his head, and followed his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the fic. I am, however, planning a sequel at some point, along with a sister fic from Mycroft's PoV that covers approximately the same time span as this fic.


End file.
